Since the beginning of this pregnancy, I’ve been trying to prepare Piggle for the arrival of his
arch nemesis sister. When we snuggle on the couch, I let him rub my belly, and when Sequel kicks, I tell him all about the baby playing soccer in mommy’s tummy. He even follows me on my six trillion daily pee-breaks—though, that’s nothing new.
So far, he hasn’t shown any interest in my uterine-dweller, and goes as far as to feign deafness when I talk about her. It’s probably just his age, but I also have a sneaking suspicion that he’s under the impression that if he pretends not to know about it, she won’t come flying out in a few weeks and take away his only-child status.
Though he acts like he has no idea what’s going on, I have caught him sneaking an interested peek at my ballooning stomach, and the other day, he caught wind of my almost-outie belly button.
Today, as usual, I asked him if he wanted to feel the baby kicking. This was the result—which went on for well over an hour and left me dripping in Piggle-spit.