Today is twenty-three weeks of pregnancy for me, and baby is roughly the size of a grapefruit. Next week my pregnancy will be considered "viable" -- meaning, if for some reason the baby had to come out at that point, his or her chances of survival would be considerably higher than if baby came before that point. Probably because, by twenty-four weeks gestation, baby's body is fully developed and just needs to grow and get fat from that point onward. (So guess when the fastest rate of belly expansion will take place.)
Meanwhile, Squirmy's body is almost completely developed and, from head to toe, is about a foot long. This little offspring of mine is still breech, or at least it seems that way based on the immense beating my bladder takes each day, but definitely alive and, most certainly, kicking and growing. I do think I felt Squirmy flip over earlier this week and felt some kicks several inches higher in my abdomen (above the belly button as opposed to the "bikini line"), only to feel them later on top of my bladder again and there they have remained. Maybe Squirmy will make a more permanent flip to the desired head down position in the next few weeks, but so far my doctor doesn't seem terribly concerned. Next OBGYN appointment is in a week, and for now I just like feeling the rolls, kicks, and punches.
Either Squirmy doesn't like my husband or Squirmy likes my husband a lot, because so far whenever I have him feel for the baby's movement, all movement ceases, usually until about two seconds after husband has been freed from holding his hand to my abdomen for several minutes while I occasionally prod my lower belly and coo, "Baby, say hi to Daddy!"
My brain continues to be seemingly addled by pregnancy. I often can't think of the words I want to say. One funny instance was earlier this week, when I was trying to explain why particular words like "can't" and "don't" have apostrophes to a first grader I am currently tutoring.
"Sometimes," I said, writing the word cannot on a paper, "We use short cuts, and we squish words together." I drew an arrow pointing down from cannot and wrote can't beneath it.
I continued explaining, "Can't and cannot mean the same thing. When we squish it together and say can't, it's called a..."
...And for the life of me I couldn't come up with the word contraction, until the student's mother walked through the room, chortling, and said, "A contraction? That's actually pretty funny you couldn't come up with THAT word." It was a very good joke!
No comments:
Post a Comment