"I'm not sure if this is baby." Your mom presses her fingers into the firm, cylindrical pouch swelling outward from her belly button.
"I don't know," your dad says.
"Put your hand here. No, here. Do you feel anything?"
Your dad puts his hand on your mom's belly. You kick. Hard. Your dad gives you a solid push back. You kick again.
"What does that feel like? What does that feel like inside?" your dad asks.
"Like little earthquakes," your mom says. "Like little aftershocks from earthquakes."
"That doesn't help me," your dad says.
You kick -- one, two. Your dad taps his fingertips on your mom's belly. He moves it across her, like a horse-galloping spider. You kick some more.
"Here," your dad says to your mom. "I'm just going to read outloud while my hand is on your belly." In the story, Robert Jordan is clinging to Maria, only hours away from blowing up the bridge. "We'll see if baby likes Hemingway," your dad says.
Your dad reads For Whom the Bell Tolls. Your mom would sleep, but grows concerned. You've never kicked this much. But you will also kick when your mom and dad play music featuring violins. Andrew Bird, Beirut, Yann Tiersen. Your mom and dad will wonder then, too, whether you kick because you are learning how to dance, or because you are learning how to cry.
