In March, I was about 6 months pregnant, and the baby was flipping around and kicking everywhere.
That second trimester? Was heaven. The baby was so fun and active, the morning sickness had died off, and I was totally showing- but in a cute way. Not in a scary way that makes people avoid you on the sidewalk like you are about to explode.
Which is what happens now.
One night I got up to pee (for the 6th time), and on my way back the baby kicked me in my ovary.
I doubled over, whimpering in pain. Have you ever had a cyst on your ovary? It felt like that. Only much, much sharper.
"What happened? Are you ok? Is it the baby??"
Kurt was sitting up, panicking.
I explained about the kick, and he chuckled.
"She's already beating up her little siblings."
It wasn't really funny at the time.
I crawled back in bed, and fell asleep.
A few hours later, I woke up to pee again. I moved back the covers- and found a sleeping Kurt hugging my belly, and talking to the baby.
"Ok? You need to be nice to your mommy. No more hurting her...." his voice trailed off into a snore.
I'm not sure how long he had been giving her this lecture, and he had no memory of it in the morning.
It melted my heart.