Kicks, Weeks and Arbitrarily Assigned Gender

I call the baby "he". I don't know what it is, but I suspect it's a boy so I call it he. Plus, in our backwards patriarchal society, words like "he" and "him" are the default anyway. The main reason I suspect the baby is a boy, against all logic or reason, is that the close-up picture from the ultrasound looked sort of masculine to me. Yeah, I know. Even with skin, babies don't look masculine or feminine anyway, which is why any baby with short hair, no matter how many frills or ruffles it wears, gets called a boy by strangers. But still, I am somehow sure that this is a boy, just like I was ten years ago when I knew Ryan was a boy. She hates that story, by the way. So last night, lying in bed but not ready to fall asleep yet, Tom and I were talking and he had his big fat heavy hand on my belly and the baby was kicking him. Repeatedly. In the same exact spot, which is odd because it's usually not that predictable. But sadly, Tom couldn't feel even the hardest whacks from within. I'm forced to try to explain what it feels like to me so that maybe he can understand. Bubbles popping, so in that sense he feels like gas. Or you know when you get a muscle twitch but it's just in one spot, like one pinpoint jerking on your arm? It feels like that. But it's different, because with a muscle twitches you can flex the muscle to stop it, and with gas you can sort of feel it coming on, but this is so completely unconnected to you, because it's not your body doing it. It's someone else doing it so there's no warning and no flexing or moving to stop it either, not that I particularly want to stop it anyway.

On a side note, I am 140 days along now, exactly half way through my pregnancy. Twenty weeks, which I choose to view as five months, lunar calendar be damned, is a milestone. I get to turn to the next chapter in my copy of What To Expect When You're Expecting. It's a big day.

Names

We already have a boy name, but we're stuck on a girl name, including the spelling of one possibility, so we need help. Vote and let us know what you like. Also, comment here if you have ideas not on the list.

Caffeinated Fetus

I like the occasional coffee drink. Not black Folgers like my mother drinks all day, but a cappuccino or even just a flavored black coffee. I had made it known that I wanted an espresso machine with a frother for Christmas last year, before I knew I was pregnant and couldn't have all the caffeine, and I not only got one from Ryan but I also received a French press from my brother. Yesterday, in the mood for coffee and citing studies which state that a cup or two a day isn't bad enough to do damage to a fetus, I made a pot in the press. Since it's a 14 oz press, it only makes about a cup and a half of the smoothest Swiss almond chocolate coffee I have ever tasted. I made myself two pots, about 3 cups, which isn't that much for most people but for someone who hasn't had caffeine in about 4 months and whose pregnant body metabolizes it slowly, it was enough to leave me bouncing and vibrating all evening. And it got me my first kicks.

Yes, all it took was a massive overdose of caffeine and and what must have felt like an earthquake ridden womb, to get my baby kicking hard enough for me to feel it. All. Damned. Night. Also, unrelated to the kicking but certainly not to the coffee, I had some really strange dreams last night. Tom as a serial killer? I need to quit watching so much Dexter.

"....surrounded by alien milk people."

I suppose an update is in order, although I don't have much to say. I am still waiting to feel any kicking but I probably won't for another couple weeks yet. Sometimes I think there's something going on down there, and it doesn't always turn out to be bubbles, but I'm afraid I'm just trying too hard. Maybe it is fluttering, maybe it's my imagination. Either way, I'll feel kicks soon enough, and then Ryan and Tom can feel them too. On a funny note, I've started lactating and Tom is thoroughly disgusted. He's so cute when he's naive. He thinks he knows how these things happen and then something as silly as a little colostrum pops up and he's floored. I hope we have a boy and he lactates too. Tom will be convinced he's surrounded by alien milk people.

I Caved . . .

. . . and ate the hot dog. Sauerkraut, while still tasting primarily of vinegar and salt, is slightly more palatable if warmed in a frying pan with some garlic. Otherwise, just as disgusting and satisfying as it was the other night. This time, though, I used spicy mustard instead of yellow.

Alien Appetite

I have food cravings. For instance, I hate sauerkraut. Can't stand the stuff. And I don't eat hot dogs. I have no idea what they put in them but I have a friend who works at an Oscar Mayer plant and she tells me to avoid them. A couple nights ago I made Tom buy me hot dogs and sauerkraut in the middle of the night. I had visions of Chicago street vendors in my head and I cooked and ate the hot dog, piled high with kraut. The next day I woke up wondering what the Hell I'd been thinking. Tonight, I fight off the urge to go make myself another one. This baby is strange. Also, I think it looks like either a Roswell alien or the Grateful Dead lightning bolt skull. What do you think?