Last night I listened to the baby's heart beat with our rented doppler monitor (worth every penny) and counting the beats, making sure the baby was okay. Why, you ask? Since I began feeling him move a few weeks ago, I've been religiously paying attention to when he wiggles and when he doesn't. Usually, if I'm laying down trying to relax, he's up and ready to play. Which is fine with me, since I love feeling him move and he's still small enough that the kicks are cute rather than painful or obnoxious. For the past few nights, though, when I'm laying in bed waiting to drift off, he seems to be peacefully sleeping, because he's no longer kicking me furiously.
So I was just sure there was a problem. Hence the counting of the heartbeat and listening for anything abnormal. 'Cause if I actually HEARD anything abnormal, I'd be able to identify it right away. You know, because of all those pregnancy books I have.
This morning, as I was leaving for work, Trav put his arms around me and started talking to my belly to say good morning to the baby (an adorable little ritual that began a week or two ago after Travis felt the first definite movement). This time, though, rather than just the "Good morning, baby! Be good! Daddy loves you!" that usually accompanies this bonding between father and son, there was this little gem: "And make sure you kick Mommy a lot, 'cause she worries. Now you and I both know that there's nothing to worry about, but she can't help it. So really kick today, okay?"
And that's when it hit me: in 16 short weeks, I am going to be outnumbered in this house and they're already plotting against me.