Getting Real
The fetus inside me finally feels more baby than fetus: a full live entity that stands up against the inside of my belly when I lay on my side, feet poking my skin down to touch the ground.
I've been told it's about the size of a coconut this week. Remember, the placenta grows apace. If I look down at my belly, it seems entirely plausible that there are two coconuts in there—but it must be getting tight.
If I gave birth today, the resultant baby would have 90-95% odds of survival. Four weeks from now, it's not even really considered early; NHS is clear that the go-bag should be packed by then. We have a doula as of this week, antenatal classes starting next week, a bassinet coming to live by Robert's side of the bed by the end of the weekend. I'm not traveling; we've decided it would be a good idea to stay close, just in case.
We're not expecting the baby early. Statistically, first babies come late. Though it wouldn't be concerning at this stage to start getting Braxton-Hicks contractions, I haven't been.
Mostly, I've been feeling good. I flashed a V2 at the bouldering gym last weekend, long walks no longer make my abs feel like they're breaking, and my novel is coming along on-pace. Pregnancy itself is a lot more fulfilling, too, when the fetus gets interactive. It wiggles after a poke, or a flashlight beam to the belly. You can usually see…
