sweet juniper!

Sometimes my wife will take my hand and jab it into her tummy. "He's right here," she'll say, with my fingers harshly parting the mucilaginous sea inside her, and I'll feel some dense shape against my fingertips. "Stop it," I'll grunt and wrench my hand from her grip. "You should be more gentle with that," I say, and she'll tell me it's no big deal, that she does it all the time. I must admit it freaks me out, when she grabs my hand and places it on a certain spot where he is kicking or twisting. I have been known to squeal like a 12-year-old girl with a mouse running up her leg. When I sit on the floor and talk into the belly, he always responds with some kind of punch or kick, either a hey pops or a shut up, you freaky jello voice. My wife has no sympathy for how bugged out I get. "I have to live with this inside me," she says.

Last night I downed two shots of espresso because I wanted to stay up late to work. When I finally went to bed, Wood rolled over and threw her arm around me, but I was nowhere close to sleep. While she slept, her belly found it's way to the small of my back, and soon he woke up as if to say hey. I sat there for so long, eyes open while the little pugilist inside her womb made his presence known, just the two of us awake in the dark room. Being awake with him at this hour will one day be a cause for complaint, no doubt, but last night it was nice, the silent fluttering, the closeness despite the months and membranes between us before we meet like real men.