Every. Single. Detail.
My poor husband. I think he just wants me to grow gracefully fat and pop out his kid so he can marvel at the miracle of birth and the mystery of it all. Not so. Instead, I make every effort to educate him on Every. Single. Detail. For example, he knows exactly what my enlarged girls have been up to lately (they’re fully functional- I have proof of this). He knows precisely to the centimeter how big my uterus is and it’s location relative to my bowels. In fact, he could probably close his eyes and outline with his finger the entire anatomy of the pregnant woman’s belly. He has become an expert at reading my expressions. He knows when I’m whiny because I am in desperate need of a nap verses the “I’m about to starve like only a pregnant woman can” whining. He can now distinguish between a “I feel a kick” smile and the “I just passed gas” one- and he promptly reaches over to feel or quickly vacates the general vincincity depending on which smile it is.
And all I can think about all of this is, “Wow, I’m one lucky woman!”