Much to my continuing amazement, she is halfway baked today. Not half-baked, as in a crackpot idea--though I can't rule that out, what with never having experienced motherhood before--but halfway baked, as in twenty weeks.
We are getting along better now, she and I. She is making room for herself, a commodious domed home in my belly; I am now able to eat enough to keep her satisfied. (In fact, I can now eat more than enough--just ask Baby Hungry Man and Anna H., whose frittata, fruit, bacon and lemon loaf I consumed with joyous abandon, leaving in my wake only the tiniest of crumby orts.)
There is a constant thread of hope running through every seam of me--the hope that she will stay there, growing and changing me, for another twenty weeks.