My wife uses her pregnant belly — her baby bump — as a table. On it: her iPad.
She waves her hand. “Hey,” she says. “Fetus doesn’t like this.”
I watch a while. The screen rocks as she breathes. Then it twitches, as if bumped.
“Did you see it?” she asks.
On screen: an episode of Bachelor in Paradise.
A man and woman who found each other on a previous season of Bachelor in Paradise are giving an interview. After a commercial break, the woman has an ultrasound. She says she can’t believe it. She’d had her eggs frozen because she thought she’d never meet someone. But then she came on the show, found love, got married, and learned a few weeks earlier that she was pregnant.
“There,” she says. “It moved!”
She’s lying on her back. Her husband sits near her head, places his hand on her hair, and laughs. The audience whoops. Applauds.
I want to critique the whole thing.
Another creepy, intrusive, condescending ratings grab.
But I struggle to find the words.
My wife pauses the show, lifts her shirt. Together, we watch what must be one of Fetus’s feet, pushing. I put my hand over the spot, put my mouth near her belly button, and speak.
Image credit: Jeremy Perkins via Unsplash