Peanut Indahouse

I am slouched on the sofa, in front of the telly, looking a little slovenly and a tad Jabba the Hut-ish ... minus the drool and rodent snacks. I am propped up by three overstuffed (orange) cushions and a trailing (orange) fleece blanket. My arms assume their now-regular position: one over the tummy, one under the tummy, a physical reflection of my subconscious hope that this mechanical support will keep stretch marks at bay.

Ste sidles up to me and grins cheekily. It is that time of night again: a Papa-und-Peanut bonding session which I, the biologically-designated Peanut-carrier, have front row seats to. That was a free ticket, by the way.

Almost on call, Peanut heaves and displays an unnerving array of movement. Unnerving because I get squeamish (and internally bruised) by Its combination of tiger uppercuts, foot stomping and somersaults (in utero reality, probably hiccups, a stretch and a roll). Feeling this through the maternal buffer thrills Ste to no end. I offer him some popcorn.

"Hey Peany, what's going on in there?" Ste inquires laughingly, "There's plenty of activity today, huh. Are you ... having a party? Got some friends over? Digging a tunnel? Planning a great escape?"

*whistles theme song from The Great Escape*

Gosh, it's a full-on variety show tonight. My jaw drops and I roll my eyes. Then Ste clenches his fist and presses it gently against the bump.

"RESPECT!"

Yes. The man I thought was a refined intellectual of impeccable deportment -the man I married- is teaching our unborn child to 'keep it real' with moves from the West Side. Well. If Peany eventually latches on well to me 'babylons', I guess I'll be one happy 'bitch'.

Ali G image from: http://thebestsportsblog.com/images/alig.jpg