Everyone keeps asking me if I talk to the baby. The answer is no, not really. And then I feel guilty, like I should have these long, involved conversations with my tiny parasite.
But what do you say? Tell her all my hopes and dreams for her, whisper sweet nothings, tell her no, she can’t have another Captain Cookie sandwich for lunch? In my head, she’s just sleeping and kicks when she turns over to get comfortable. Also, she’s a fetus. At 26 weeks, she could live on her own outside me with serious medical intervention, but she’s not capable of rational thought. We can’t discuss if she liked last night’s So You Think You Can Dance. She’s only kind of a baby.
I think it kind of boils down to the fact that pregnancy is insidious. Change creeps in about the edges. One day your boobs hurt and the next week, you’ve gone up a cup size. You’re hungry Monday and on Tuesday, you’ve gained 2 pounds. It’s so sudden and so slow. I still haven’t quite grasped the fact that I’m making a person. There’s not a lot of conscious choice and a surrender of control of your body.
Do I talk to the baby? Not really. But I am always aware of her.