Kick Push Kick Push Kick Push ... Coast

Title sound a little familiar but you can't put your finger on it? Oh, you know the song.

I think almost nonstop about our little baby, so to have purposefully few and far between social networking blurbs about her seems a little standoffish. So, here's one for free: I love baby kicks. Love them.

Emmy is able to hear noises outside the womb now, and she kicks the minute that Anthony gets up out of bed (4:45 a.m., ladies and gentlemen). She kicks when he reads a chapter of the Bible to her before bed at night. She kicks when I eat and when I'm hungry. She kicks when I am cooking dinner. She kicks when I'm checking the mail. This baby can move.

I take physical movement for granted. For instance, when a disabled person shuffles past you, or wheels themself into the room with you, do you avert your eyes? Is this action conscious or subconscious? Do we feel hesitant to look, in case we are mistaken for staring, or is it because we feel ashamed to have what they do not?

That said, I feel like every movement inside of me is a miracle. It's as visceral as a kid in a hoodie at a Jay-Z show feeling the beat. I am determined to not take this movement for granted.