My wife would wish it were so easy.
Xander’s been moving about more frequently and vigorously the past week or so. ‘Tis the month of turning down, as our gynae and about a hundred pregnancy books and articles say, so my wife is also in the process of packing her overnight bag for the hospital stay when she is ready to deliver.
(I am finding pregnancy terms increasingly disturbing. like “ready to deliver.” When we first went to see our gynae, she had to leave in the middle of our consultation to “take a delivery”. Being the only man in the entire clinic at the moment, I thought maybe some pharmaceutical company were replenishing some stock or something, but nooooooo, it was a baby she had to take delivery of! That’s right up there in the list of “They Got To Find a Better Way Of Saying That” phrases, together with “expressing milk” for me.)
Many nights, we’ve been marvelling at Xander’s movements. My wife describes him as large enough to stretch himself from her left side to her right side (which is a bit of a stretch for me to believe, but who am I to talk? She’s the one who’s pregnant). When she invites me to put my hands on her belly though, I get what she’s saying. Xander’s either playing out the Contra secret code for 99 lives (the ever immortal up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-A-B-Select-Start) with his legs, or my wife installed a foetal Dance Dance Revolution wombpad for Xander’s turn-of-the-millenium Ah Beng education.
Whatever he’s doing, it’s evident he’s running out of space in his mother’s not-very-little tum-tum. My wife is starting to walk the exact way she doesn’t want to; like a penguin. And the labour pains are constant; our bout of food poisoning seems like a primer for what is to inevitably come for the tail end of my wife’s hotly anticipated third trimester; Braxton-Hicks coupled with a few solid foetal kicks (I was hoping he’d get into basketball instead, but whatever keeps him fit, yeah?).