The first time I felt my son move inside me was after a meal from a pizzeria from Long Beach. It was Veggie Pizza. The pizza itself was ordinary, but the moments afterwards are what are ingrained in my mind, burning to burst through at sometimes the most inopportune moments.
The ride home was uneventful. But as soon as I had laid down on the cream colored couch we owned, that was the beginning. I had never felt my son before and had only read what it was supposed to feel like: butterflies, gas. What the hell does butterflies feel like? Gas? There was so much I had yet to learn and not enough moments to learn them in.
But Jude, he was different. Nothing was textbook with him. He jerked so hard that night that Wes was able to feel his movements through my stomach. Even at an early gestational age, he was announcing to mommy and daddy that pizza was something he enjoyed. It was the most overwhelming sensation in the world. It was not gas, nor was it butterflies. It was Jude.
From that moment on, I kept a running log of what I ate that caused such delight in my son: Cherry Coke Zero (on VERY rare occasions), Starbucks iced chocolate milk, the song, "Hey Jude" by the Beatles. The list cuts off here. The rarity of his movements hit home the severity of his disease.
Talk about a bitter sweet moment. I don't think anything defines anything so bitter, acidic, torturous juxtaposed next to such heart warming moments like Jude's movements. The taste never left my mouth, though I tried to revel in the here and now.
Yes, my son like the taste of Pizza.
The ride home was uneventful. But as soon as I had laid down on the cream colored couch we owned, that was the beginning. I had never felt my son before and had only read what it was supposed to feel like: butterflies, gas. What the hell does butterflies feel like? Gas? There was so much I had yet to learn and not enough moments to learn them in.
But Jude, he was different. Nothing was textbook with him. He jerked so hard that night that Wes was able to feel his movements through my stomach. Even at an early gestational age, he was announcing to mommy and daddy that pizza was something he enjoyed. It was the most overwhelming sensation in the world. It was not gas, nor was it butterflies. It was Jude.
From that moment on, I kept a running log of what I ate that caused such delight in my son: Cherry Coke Zero (on VERY rare occasions), Starbucks iced chocolate milk, the song, "Hey Jude" by the Beatles. The list cuts off here. The rarity of his movements hit home the severity of his disease.
Talk about a bitter sweet moment. I don't think anything defines anything so bitter, acidic, torturous juxtaposed next to such heart warming moments like Jude's movements. The taste never left my mouth, though I tried to revel in the here and now.
Yes, my son like the taste of Pizza.
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