The baby was awake at two in the morning.Not a gentle awareness either. A full campaign of kicks in sets of three, a pause, then three more, with the focused persistence of someone who had decided that sleeping was not something they were interested in, and the inside of my ribs was a perfectly reasonable place to make that known.I lay in the dark and counted them.Three. Pause. Three. Pause. Then a longer rolling movement, slow and deliberate, turning from one side to the other with the unhurried ease of someone who had all the space in the world, which they did not, which seemed not to bother them at all.Twenty-six weeks. I had learned their rhythms the way I had learned everything about this pregnancy, through attention and repetition and the particular intimacy of carrying someone who could not yet speak but communicated constantly. They were quietest in the mornings. Most active in the late afternoons and then again at two in the morning, which Aunt Clara said was completely n
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