Last night we were giving Robbie a bath and he was having fun.
This is notable because until very, very recently, bath time was torture time. They literally lasted no longer than 3 minutes, 2 minutes and 50 seconds of which involved Robbie crying and me trying to convince him that "it's okay."
Anyway, back to the fun.
So he was wiggling around and splashing his hands and kicking his feet. He kept staring at his feet as though he was amazed that his feet could do these amazing tricks. So of course, I was watching the amazing tricks.
It brought back the memory of kicks that I was feeling a year ago. His little feet just went non stop. He was breech throughout my entire pregnancy, so his feet were in my bladder. I'd be working and feel this Pop-pop-pop and wonder what is he DOING in there? (well, really, I was wondering what SHE was doing in there, since I was so convinced he was a girl. But let's not nitpick.)
It was such a bittersweet memory. I loved feeling him move. Even when those kicks hurt a little, I was pleased.
But then I got a little sad. Thinking about the months he missed kicking me. About the months of floating in amniotic fluid that he was cheated out of.
I wonder if someday he'll love to swim and he'll be able to make up for some of that lost time.
He deserves the fun.
I suppose not hating the bath is a good first step.