Week 26 tummy

This past week he started kicking and flipping and just generally making his presence felt more more more.

He's still kind of uncooperative, and so when I'd say he was kicking and Maude or her mom would put a hand on my belly, he'd stop. I think also their hands are so nice and warm that he probably got all soothed.

One night we stayed up ridiculously late, and I was lying on my side on the couch. It's my sleep position, the one that makes him riverdance just as I'm starting to drowse. And so he was thump thump thumping away, and I told Maude, who hurried over, kneeled on the floor, and slid her hands flat under my tummy.

And sure enough, there he was, all dancy-pantsing on her hands. We just giggled.

This is how her mom stumbled across us, past midnight, all jet lagged, as she wandered past the living room to use the bathroom.

She didn't even blink.

Another thing that's happened is that my belly button is becoming less and less, well, belly buttonish. I'm terrified it's going to become an outie. You can see the hint of this in the top picture.

Nick is sure it is, and my horror of the idea delights him. So this morning said he was trying to get a good silhouette that showed the sticky-outy nature of what used to be my cute little innie.

And here I am trying to block this image.Maude said hers never stuck out, just got to the point where it was pretty much flat.

"Basically," she said, "it looked like a cat asshole."

I'm pretty sure cat asshole is where I'm headed with this one as well.

Should totally be a maternity store

I didn't actually buy anything in here, but I feel like this kind of sums me up a lot lately.

And it would make a perfect line of maternity wear.

The Dutch have spectacular English, so I have to assume the owners just decided to amuse themselves naming their store.

It reminded me, though, of traveling with a friend in Argentina a few years ago. We met the most adorable French-Canadian couple, and went out to dinner with them a couple times.

One night we were all given Engish menus. And we were laughing so hard at translations like "flittered and flappered octopus."

And then one of our new French-Canadian friends said, "I've got one! I've got one! Rib eye steak! Hahahahahaha!"

And we were all, "Oh, that's just normal."

Home

Having finally mastered the baby gates, it's time to go.

I can't wait to get home.

The visit has been fantastic, and quite honestly, Maude and her family are family to me. Maude knows me better than just about anyone. It's easy, it's comfortable, and we've had a lot of fun.

But I miss the shit out of my husband.

It's funny to realize, you know, because I rarely miss people on a daily basis.

I grew up leaving and leaving and leaving. And it's not that I never missed people, but they were few and far between, and often limited to specific moments and situations or once a large span of time had passed. Even boyfriends I dearly loved.

But the general missing, the feeling of a huge, gaping lack, this is not my norm on a trip.

And this time, that's how it is. While it's only been a week, it just feels like too long and too far. And while I'm having fun, I realize it would be that much better if Nick were here too.

I want him in my life. Every day.

As an adult, I kept moving and moving, because nowhere was really home. I had this certainty that I would find home in a person, rather than a place. And I kept waiting for that to happen.

And just as I'd given up believing it would, it finally did.

Nick felt like home immediately, and although I've not questioned it, this trip confirms for me that he is, he really is.

It's hit me hard how tremendous it is, after so many physically and emotionally peripatetic years, to have a home. And to know absolutely and firmly that whatever the geography, he's not going anywhere, and neither am I.

I'd follow him to the ends of the earth, if it really came down to it. I've never been with anyone that I could actually say that about.

Seriously. If he had some huge, unrelenting, uncompromising desire to move somewhere like, I don't know, a chicken farm in Wisconsin or Ulan Bator, I'd go.

Of course, if he's reading this, it's worth mentioning that the time we spent there would likely be nothing short of living hell, and thus really not all that worth it.

But I'd go.

So, assuming best case scenario: the plane actually makes it across the ocean, I arrive safe and sound at Dulles, get picked up by one or both parents, and am home in time for dinner with my favorite husband, then I'll see you all tomorrow.

Hugs to all.

Clarification, candy, and evil thoughts. In other words, a post about not much of anything.

I'm currently waiting for Maude to put Benj down, and then we're going to leave him to his grandparents and go shopping.

Having checked email and briefly perused the news, blogging seemed in order. Really, I feel like between my pre-flight post and Nick's description of me as a frenzied, teeth-gnashing, licorice drooling freak, I need to do a little clarifying.

Yes, I hate to fly. Yes, I get all freaked out.

I'm someone who is reliably 5-10 minutes late to every non-work, non-doctor's appointment. My friends know I'm on time, within this small window.

But the days I fly, I really do get so agitated. I have a tremendous need to get to the airport super early, although I'm not sure why.

And yes, I do have firmly in mind that getting on a plane, this could be it. I call my nearest and dearest for a last last last minute goodbye. Because the goodbye-I-love-you from an hour prior might have worn off. Or I might not get another chance.

And yes, I had a big chocolate Frosty while waiting. And I had Snickers, M&Ms, and Milky Way for the flight. Not to calm myself down, but rather, in case we plummet into the ocean, I'll have crammed in the kinds of things I want to eat daily but don't.

None of this is rational, but it's just how it goes.

I don't froth at the mouth, I don't pace, I don't rock in my seat or drool. But I am all clenched at takeoff and landing, and as soon as we hit turbulence, I'm prepared for the worst.

I always know where my nearest exits are, bearing in mind that the closest one might be behind me.

I did get all distracted this time, though, because I was about to have three seats across. I could lay down! I could put my feet up! I could sleep!

And then, at the last minute before takeoff, this man slid furtively into the other aisle seat.

Bastard.

I'd shoved stuff on the middle seat to claim it, and he proceeded to do the same.

Fucking douche with his fucking Kindle.

I was so busy giving him the stinkeye that takeoff caught me off guard. And then I realized that putting waves of loathing out into the plane was bad strategy in terms of helping the universe with a smooth takeoff. So I tried to think happy thoughts.

I must admit, though, once safely in the air, I did try to fart at him through the flight, and I was dearly regretting not having eaten fibrous vegetables earlier in the day.

You just never know when you'll sorely wish to summon a terrible gas of death.

So I resented the shit out of him for the hours we were in the air, and I wasn't sleeping, and he was all crashed out in his chair. Sleeping! In cattle class seat! He could've stayed in his own fucking chair!

But at some point around midnight, after watching Frost Nixon over dinner, I calmly ate my M&Ms and Snickers and read my book - The Yiddish Policemen's Union - which, while I love Michael Chabon, hasn't captivated me.

On a sidebar - do those of you who have boobs in your normal life regularly drop food into them? It's become an issue with me. And I'm not above reaching in to dig out bits of caramel and peanut rather than letting them melt into my bra.

I am pretty sure I was done wishing him ill by the time they served cold jam-filled rolls, although maybe not entirely. I might've hated him a little as he awoke.

Then he went back to his actual seat to retrieve his belongings and get off the plane.

I saw a man I thought was him in the metro a couple days ago, and considered furtively trying to trip him. But if you've not sure, it's best not to trip a random Dutch stranger.

Which is really just common sense, isn't it?

Week 25 tummy

Although he's not a rutabaga, which is what I believe the size is this week, Maude thought we should have Benj in the picture for scale.

We both love how unsuspecting he looks, while the stealth tummy approaches in the background.

It is still pretty astounding to me that the little dude in my uterus is going to turn into a big, actual, human boy who sits in a high chair picking at his pasta, more fascinated by the world around him.

"Yites!"

This is his word for lights. I've discovered that conversation with a two year old consists of a lot of color and object identification.

So I arrived without issue. The weather so far has been spectacular. Queen's Day was one big street party after another but not chaotic insanity, at least not in the places we wandered.

Mostly, it's been a lot of very low key hanging out with dear friends.

Kind of perfect, actually.