By Rachel Schinderman
I was very pregnant. 38 weeks. I remember being very aware of my belly and not because it was as big as it was. And it was big. Huge actually. But because, it felt hollow, empty. It was a Wednesday and my husband was at work. I knew my running off to the movies to while away an afternoon days were coming to an end, so I sat down in my seat in a dark theater on 2nd Street to watch Little Miss Sunshine by myself. The baby was scheduled to arrive in a week by C-section since he was breech. I was trying to get it all in. Lunch with an old college friend and a facial were rounding out the week.
I half watched the movie, half pushed on my belly. Where are you I wondered? But he never moved much. That was his way. It was normal. Occasionally, like at night when I was trying to sleep he would remind me he was there. Once it seemed he had friends over, but that was not the norm, he was snug in his spot.
It seems this would be the moment where I would race out of the theater and head straight to my doctor’s or arrive at the hospital. This would be the hero move. But as a first time pregnant lady who had called her doctor often over Braxton Hicks and other not feeling quite so well moments, I figured again it would be the same answer. I was fine. The baby wasn’t moving, true, but the baby never moved much. And besides, I had an appointment the next morning. Continue Reading…