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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.

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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.

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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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