By this point, I was starting to feel The Boy's hiccups, which he had all the time. ALL the time. The Lad has not had hiccups, but does these stealth karate chops to my internal organs, making me feel like my intestines are up in my throat. The Boy stayed pretty active, but was never one to respond to requests. The Lad does not like to be poked; poke him and he'll poke you. I get the sense The Lad is going to be, lord help us, more ornery than The Boy.
But The Lad isn't the only thing different about this pregnancy. I'm different. The husband and I are different parents this time around. When I was this far along with The Boy, we already had painted his room, ordered a crib and bedding and picked out names. This time around, The Lad's name still is under debate, and the husband refers to the kid's eventual room as the "messy one" because it's piled with baby junk, charity boxes and other crap that has to find a home. I haven't read a single one of the pregnancy books I devoured in a weekend in my third month with The Boy, and my only concession to the idea of a pregnancy diet is to get on the scales at the grocery store once a week to make sure I'm not blimping up unnoticed. I did go get paint chips, so that's some movement in the right direction.
I just have this feeling like, "Eh, it'll get done."
I'm waiting breathlessly for the moment when that changes to the feeling of, "OMG! I'm having a baby and NOTHING is ready."