I keep telling myself: Getting kicked is okay! Because in our world, kicking and getting kicked usually implies some kind of unhappy aggression, and unless you're a Rockette or David Beckham/Mia Hamm, or a football, it's not that awesome.
The little lady in there, whom we sometimes refer to as the baby kung fu panda, likes to kick. When she kicks a lot, it triggers these insecurities I have about how good of a mom I'll be. I fast forward in my mind to some knock-down, drag-out fight we're having when the baby panda is a teenager and she really hates me-- especially when it's 4.30 in the morning and the kicking lasts for 45 minutes.
Getting kicked in the vagina from the inside out is also really weird. It feels very science-fiction-- like she's found the exit and wants to make a run for it. But, I also know that really she's just flexing and stretching in there, and that for the time being she still has plenty of room, so that's why I can feel it so much.
Just for the record, the sci-fi weirdness and the perceived aggression are not the predominant feelings I have about the kung fu going on in my abdomen. I take great comfort in feeling this little one, obviously strong, making herself known. She's in another dimension right now, in her microcosm of evolution, a fluid-breathing bundle of instincts and reflex. I want her to be strong and joyful, smart and aware, graceful and gracious. So maybe I'll just think of her dancing instead-- her happy-hour celebration before she comes out and we can dance together for real. Shake it, baby panda! Just not right on my privates.
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