I enjoy the number 13. I think it is a delightful number. It is the number of children my parents have. It is the date I was married on. I also enjoy that it freaks people out. So I revel in my enjoyment.
I am 13 weeks along with my first baby (hopefully with many more to come). In many ways Baby doesn’t feel real yet. She (no we don’t know the gender, but it is easier to pick on and go) is the size of a peach this week. My mom wanted to know why the size of the baby referred to food. I thought about it and agree with her. All the comparisons do is make me yearn for peaches (or plums or whatever the size is for the week). I guess most people have a pretty good understanding of what a peach looks like though and can better conceptualize the size.
Anyway, she is the size of a peach and is starting to reach exact proportions. Still, my stomach only looks bloated which just makes me feel fat, not pregnant. Aside from other signs (occasional morning sickness, heightened smell, and explosive breasts) I just don’t feel pregnant yet.
Matt and I are eagerly anticipating our baby already though. I cannot even imagine how surreal it must be for him. At least at some point I will feel the life growing inside me and begin to connect with her better. For Matt, he has to wait until she comes out before he really gets it (at least, I would have to wait until she came out if I wasn’t pregnant).
We talk to baby a lot and sing her songs. I think she will fit well into my loud rambunctious family because, let’s face it, I am probably the loudest and most rambunctious of the lot. In fact, though are household numbers three (we have a dog), we could make a reasonable run for loudest family in the apartment complex and possible loudest family of the block. But it’s a good loud, at least, I think it’s a good loud.
oh crap…is this baby entering hell??