The way I can reach down and place a hand on my belly. Large but perfectly round. Firm. Solid.
The way I’m aware of every move. Every position readjusted. Every hiccup.
The way he is with me, all the time, so close to my heart. He will always be close to my heart. But not like this again.
The way strangers smile at me, sweetly. The reminder of life, new and so full of promise. It is infectious.
The way my girl showers my belly with hugs and kisses. Loving the boy inside before she’s met him. Before she really understands.
The way my boy’s daddy rests his hand on my belly as we watch TV, amazed at every hop he feels.
The way I stare down and watch his acrobatics cause ripples and bulges in my skin. Creepy but fascinating.
The way he stretches and I can feel, distinctly, a hand or a foot or a shoulder. The way I circle my arms around him then, feeling so distinctly the little human inside.
And yes, the way that nothing seems to fit anymore. Shirts don’t cover, dresses feel snug.
The way I squeeze into a booth at a restaurant or behind the steering wheel of my car, barely enough space for my baby and me.
Yes, the way my back screams in the morning, my legs scream at night, and my feet scream all the time.
Oh yes, even the waddle. Even the sleep deprivation that I know will only get worse. Even the strong and perpetually unfulfilled cravings for one more cup of coffee.
Yes, those I will miss too.
I’ll miss it all.
But then, I’ll have him.
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