Goodnight, You Moonlight Ladies

And so already, my daughter is making herself the center of my life. Once I finally figured out what it felt like when she moved, it felt like she wouldn't stop moving. At home, whenever I felt a particularly strong kick, I'd yell for The Boy. "Baby! Get in here! I saw my hand move!" Slowly, he'd shuffle over, put his hand on my belly and morosely say, "I don't feel anything. You only feel it on the outside because you feel it on the inside." He pouted. I did not necessarily agree with his logic, so I still called him whenever I thought he might be able to feel it.

Then last week at work I realized she hadn't been moving much. At all. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time she moved. I went to The Boy's softball game, and in the car on the way home I blurted out, "She's not moving and I don't know what to do." The Boy convinced me to call the after hours line at my doctor's office.

"Would you classify this as an emergency?" The receptionist said.

"I don't know; that's why I'm calling."

"Well, the only way to get a message through is to call it an emergency. I can also refer you to office hours."

We went through this sequence a few times, before I told her to call it an emergency. It was only 9 PM, but no one ever called me back.

When I laid down to go to bed, the baby gave me a courtesy kick, but just one, and just barely. In the morning, at 8:56, I called the doctor's office. Another receptionist answered the phone. "Should I classify this as an emergency? It's that or else I refer you to office hours. The office doesn't open until 9:00," she said. I figured I could wait the four minutes.

Throughout the morning various receptionists told me to eat sugar or lie down or drink a little soda to get the baby to move. My daughter is way too cool to fall for any of that, though; she could not be manipulated.

Finally my favorite, Jacquetta, called me back. "Would you like to come in, just in case?"

Thank God. The Boy and I raced to the office to wait over an hour to hear the heartbeat, which, of course, we heard immediately. The other doctor, not my usual OB, tried to reassure me, but of course I felt like an idiot. I told her I was feeling something else, like a tightening that seemed too low to be the baby. "Well, pregnancy is uncomfortable," she said. Yeah, I thought, I've been pregnant nearly six months now; I think I've picked up on that. I will try not to freak out again, at least while my child is in utero; it was pretty embarrassing. After the doctor walked out, the kid kicked like she was trying to break free.

"Maybe she was just trying to get some attention," I hypothesized. "She's probably going to be a drama queen."

"Could be," The Boy said, "only once she gets older I doubt she'll try to get attention by sitting quietly."

A couple days later, we decided to play music for the stubborn child. In the absence of headphones, we put the iPod docking station on my belly. We played Counting Crows, and even though I disagree with her, she liked Mr. Jones better than A Murder of One. She liked Jack Johnson okay. But by far, her favorite was James Taylor. We played Sweet Baby James, and she went nuts. "Was that her?" The Boy asked, eyes wide. I nodded. "It wasn't you hiccuping or something?" He couldn't believe it.

"Are you getting verklempt?" I asked him, using our euphemism for being choked up, which we've used frequently since I've been pregnant.

"No," he said, too quickly. "I've probably felt her lots of times before, I just didn't know what I was looking for." He paused and looked down, "Well, maybe a little."

I put my hand on my belly and envisioned rocking our baby in the glider I thought would be much more comfortable and singing, "Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won't you let me go down in my dreams, and rockabye sweet baby James." And then I got verklempt, just a little.