Little Kicks Inside Her

I am now quite sure that what I thought was gas is actually B the G squirming around in there. And I get a free pass on mistaking it for gas because while everybody tells you about nausea and being tired when you are pregnant, nobody tells you that you will pass gas like your fat uncle after a chili cheese steak.

I know some people are just naturally more gassy than others, but this has never been a particular affliction of mine. So the subsequent arrival of wind with my pregnancy has been a double whammy if you will. I am constantly surprised by it. And it's not the kind you can blame on the dog because it follows you as you walk, - whomp, whomp, whomp - coming out with every step you take like your own little marching band.

I find it rather hilarious. Justin, however, is one of the few people in the world who don't think farts are funny. He prefers to ignore them when they happen to him and acts absolutely astounded that they could actually come out of me. Which makes it even funnier.

So when the kicks started, I naturally assumed it's more gas roiling around in there as my guts make room for baby. But in the past week or two, I've gotten plenty of taps and pops that usually mean gas, but then - nothing. And now they have started coming in adorable little rhythms in one area of my belly that certainly have never happened with plain ordinary gas. Pink Floyd's The Great Gig In the Sky came on the radio yesterday and B the G moved around wildly throughout the entire song. Can she hear now too?

I love to feel it and only wish Justin could experience it too, but right now, it's only internal. He'll have to be content with my existing external symptoms for a little while longer. Cue John Philip Sousa!