It’s a boy.
If you ‘carry low’, that is. It’s a girl if you carry high. That’s what they say isn’t it?
What is it if you carry low and high depending on the day of the week?
This kid just won’t sit still. From an upright position last week, it seems to have started to nosedive in an attempt to take up a more horizontal position. All of which is resulting in a distortion of ET’s belly.
With the placenta behind the baby, all movements are being felt more pronounced, and even seen. On a couple of occasions ET’s gut looked like the cranium of a bald man who’d fallen head first down the stairs.
Touching this massive protruding lump is nothing short of freaky.
What I hope is the child’s head seems to push right out, almost grapefruit sized in feeling. With a wee push back, the kid takes the hint and shuffles back into another less Sigourney Weaver-esque position.
Incidentally, if it’s not his or her head, and happens to be their backside, then it’s immediately Atkins for kiddo upon its arrival. How will we ever be able to trot around town with a baby with a muffin top?
Skinny jeans from baby GAP wouldn’t make it over its thighs, junior Jimmy Choo’s would pinch its chubby ankles, and muscle tops just wouldn’t cut it with baby-man boobs.
As part of the birth plan we’ll have a pediatric personal trainer on hand to work on the flab and Baby Botox injections will be readied in case junior emerges with chicken lips. All this alongside a stylist prepared to pluck or shave or highlight or curl as needs be, while hair colour will be adjusted to compliment the bedding.
Only the best looking baby can be allowed to take up residence in a room, the unventilated painting of which seems to have caused me to sneeze ‘milk-white’ and hallucinate doorbells.
I need a lie down.