Turkey, baby and I

It's five in the morning and I am here in the kitchen with a defrosting turkey that doesn't look defrosted at all. I am looking at it and it is looking back at me, defiant. I take him out of the refrigerator, sit him on the counter and whisper to it as to not wake anybody up, "You should be nice and ready for the oven by now, you know? You're such a turkey!"

Today is thanksgiving day and we all finally went to bed at midnight last night. Of course that's when Matthew woke up, stretched his little legs and started to wiggle his little behind side to side to what it feels like the Macarena dance (and of course that's the song that stays in my brain for the rest of the night).

Every time I start to doze off, out from my unconscious come the voices of latino singers, at full blast, HEY MACARENA! AAAAY!

Yesterday, however, the baby got me worried by not moving as much for a stretch of two or so hours.

I switched positions, poked him, got him upside down in a downward dog position and finally pissed him off enough to receive the largest blow on my ribs to date.

Laying in bed after our fight, I mapped my belly to find out where exactly his head was.

Here is how to map a pregnant belly:

Belly Mapping

Suddenly a hard bulge protruded by my left oblique and I literally held part of my baby's head on my hand. It is the size of a grapefruit and oh, so tiny!

Moments like this make me so thankful that his kicks are painful. It must be terrifying for those moms who stop feeling the kicks. You know the baby is in distress and maybe even gone.

Now it is six o'clock and the sun is rising. Matthew and I are still awake. At least he will go back to sleep in his cozy cave. I, on the other hand, in a few hours will have my fingers inside of a partially defrosted and raw poultry's ass. Wish me luck.