Although I do a lot of figurative navel-gazing on this blog, I've never been much of a literal navel-gazer. Mostly because I never used to see my navel much during day-to-day activities. Now, it's front and center. In my favorite position (cross-legged on the couch with a pillow behind me and something awful like Teen Mom on TV), in my favorite beat-the-heat outfit (gym shorts and a bra), it stares up at me like a little well in a mound of bread dough.
I try to talk to the baby, when I remember to. It's not the most natural thing in the world. Mostly our conversations are awkward and one sided.
Me: "Whatcha doin' in there, buddy?"
Me: "You kickin'?"
Fetus: ... (translation: "Duh.")
Me: "Are you kicking because you liked those tacos or because they made you angry?"
Fetus: ... (possible translations: "AHHHHH!!!!! I LOVE TACOS!!!!!!!!!!!"; or "You know beans give me hiccups, you bitch!")
I've also been singing to him. My favorite so far is "Be My Baby" by the Ronnettes. I also want to learn the words to "Cry Baby," by Janis Joplin for an ironic lullaby when he screams later on. Of course, that one's kind of fucked up, if you look at the lyrics, but I don't think he'll know.
And if he doesn't like it, he can always throw up on me.
For now, though, he's my captive audience.