It's with me that you're messing

Kicking has been on my mind a lot lately. Why, you ask? Because the wee one in my middle is apparently trying out to take over David Beckham's slot while he's out because of injury. In other words, he, the babe inside, Baby X, is kicking (and hitting and flipping and slamming) up a storm. And it is the oddest experience yet, for multiple reasons, only the least of which is it's all kinds of freaky to suddenly see your mid-section move violently with a life of its own in a sort of alarming homage to Sigourny Weaver or Scully in that episode about the slug-like reincarnation of Christ implanted in her back by that cult of really odd folks (in the Utah desert, I think).

Reason number two: having another entity that has a demonstrable will of its own that close to you is disconcerting. So far, I have determined, via definitive kicking patterns, that Baby X does not like seat belts, waist bands that can be felt in any way, plane landings, red, green, or yellow peppers, pizza, or garlic. He has let his approval be known, however, about ice cream, Frosted Flakes, baked potatoes, juice of any sort, and sweat/yoga pants without drawstrings. One can only hope these particular trends don't continue past birth!

Reason number three: Baby X displays an uncanny ability to sense when someone else besides me might be in a position to feel his kicking and ceases immediately, leading people such as the husband to think I am simply making all this movement up.

Reason number four: my cohort of newer moms has informed me that things only get worse from here, particularly for baby boys, who have turned out, at least in their experience, to be more active in the womb as well as out of it. One soon-to-deliver mother says her boy baby doesn't like the mattress and immediately starts pushing against the mattress every night when she reclines on her side, the only approved way to rest. Another said her now-four-year-old son kicked her so hard whilst in the womb he broke her rib.

Oy and vey, two times.