I’m 23 weeks and going strong. That is, until I’m not because I have acid reflux so bad I’m throwing up like I have morning sickness again. Ahh, memories.
My baby is a tad larger and heavier than last week (surprise!). Baby’s growing, always with the growing. Lung development is big right now since apparently babies born at 24 weeks have a fighting chance of surviving outside of the womb. 23 weeks is questionable and 24 certainly isn’t anything to be proud of, but I do get s slight sense of relief knowing that my kiddo has a fighting chance in hell if something were to happen. But hang in there little guy, I’m not done cooking you yet.
And here’s my weekly check-in with my hormones:
I’m starting to be able to see the baby move, which is odd. It just looks like I’m burping or working my abs, but my belly is moving completely outside of my control now. And apparently my baby’s hearing is improving and he can hear everything that I do, except with an “underwater” tone. In that case, I apologize Mini Me for my pregzilla outburst last Friday at our pest control company. The silver lining of it all is that loud noises that Mini Me gets familiar to now won’t phase him when he’s actually here. So I have just under 4 months to expose this little guy to as much dog barking, vacuuming, yelling, door bells, and everything else that’s going to wake him up from the nap 10 minutes after I’m finally able to get him down for.
Angel said the smartest thing to me yesterday since we started this whole endeavor. We were watching Keeping up with the Kardashians (because women’s basketball was playing on the Olympics) and the sneak peak for next week showed Kourtney exploring home birth options. I immediately said something offensive along the lines of “Oh, hell no. Why would anyone want that?” or my famous “Does she know that someone has to clean that up?” and Angel said to me “I would do it if you wanted to.” I gave him a really odd look like he was about to spout off a list of research that he’d done about the pros to home birth in an attempt to convince me that it’s not too late to change my mind, but instead he just continued with “I don’t really care either way how the baby comes. You’re the one doing it, so it’s your choice and since you want to be in a hospital with an OB I’m fine with that, too.” Listen up, guys. Smartest thing to have ever come out of his mouth regarding pregnancy: “You’re the one doing it, so it’s your choice” BINGO. And there was no hint of sarcasm or longing to change any birth plans. Every time I mention something that I want to do or don’t want to happen regarding birth, he’s 110% on board. He’s a smart man. No uterus, no opinion.
Now when it comes to raising children, my opinion is no better off then his. Let’s talk it out and come up with a compromising middle ground that we can both live with that will keep our munchkin happy and healthy. But when it comes to birthing, let me, the baby, and the OB call all of the shots and in return I promise to allow you in the room. But surprisingly, that conversation never needed to happen.
I also scrubbed the house clean from top to bottom for the second weekend in a row. It’s my way of nesting while dropping an atomic bomb on the scorpion population. Besides, it’s the one of the few exercise options that I have available in the summer heat and apparently Mini Me can feel me move and dance now, so he should be happy that Momma’s rocking out to her ipod while mopping the floors.