Hang to the Right

I'm convinced that I'm incubating a feral goat or at least a baby grimlin. Needless to say, I'm thankful she's healthy enough to yield powerful kicks and punches at a tender age. She has learned a few new tricks these past several weeks. The first sign that the child is going to be as wild as a billy goat is her new routine that Wil calls "booty dancing." We sit and watch in amazement my whole stomach jiggling and bouncing in every which direction. It's an intense, non-stop party that can last for longer than half an hour at a time. Then she shows us her stubborn streak by constantly sticking something very large, like a head or a butt, wayyyyy out to the right of my tummy and holding the position until momma begs for mercy. Chase, I know growing room is getting tight but you really can't break out of jail just yet even if you headbutt the chosen spot repeatedly at all hours of the day and night. All it's really doing is hurting me and making me keep tab of how many times in your life I'd need to flick your ear lobes when you're not looking to get even. The funny thing is I can plead with her all day trying to get her to move. And what do I get? A bigger and tighter ball of an epically lopsided proportion. Now, bring her papa to the tummy, let him whisper something to her and gently nudge the bulge back to the other side--and presto! Seriously, it's not like I'm giving her my flesh and blood or anything. I detest this in-utero preferential treatment.

On to a brighter note on baby gear shopping. Since no retailers would ship anything bulky to us, we decided that our baby was going to be a second hand baby. Yesterday we picked up a nearly new swing for the Goat--the exact same one that I wanted and couldn't get it delivered--for a steal, along with a precious few newborn clothing items I couldn't resist and a BuddleMe. Good thing about living in a baby boom community is an abundance of gently used stuff for sale. It's lifting my foul mood that seems to have descended on this portion of the pregnancy. My poor husband doesn't quite know what to do with me in between my manically scrubbing something as if the humanity was depending on it and getting pissed off at the contestants on "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader" for being retarded. Really, have you seen those people? They make me question our children's future educational system. I'm blaming my moody kid for my ill temper.

P.S. Tubs of delicious ice cream and sorbet just keep springing into our fridge. Either my husband really loves me and knows that my therapists, Ben and Jerry, have the magic touch and can bring me out of my pregnancy gloom with one simple scoop, or he's trying to tell me that he likes his women big. I'm going with the latter.