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Storming the third trimester (with belly shots)

Mr. Baby and I have 12 weeks, at most, left to ourselves.

We commune in the beige recliner every evening. I do my part by eating dinner. He kicks out a code in response, about 20 minutes later. His movements are strong enough to see.


Archie likes to lift my shirt to smackity-pat my belly. He doesn’t understand who is in there or how his life is going to change in, at most, 12 weeks. I tell him to say hi to baby brother.

I bought a green and white striped onesie for the baby. It’s the only thing I have for him that wasn’t owned and used by another child. In the next 12 weeks, at most, I will try to find a few more things he can call his own.


It’s time to storm the third trimester, to rally the energy and optimism necessary to get through these final weeks. It’s uphill, isn’t it? That’s how I picture the 12 weeks. At most.

It’s a serious trudge through the hottest and brightest days of the year. I keep myself busy by simply opening my eyes in the morning. The days launch on the first beat and don’t stop until I lie down on my side and wait for him to kick out his own version of goodnight.

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