It’s taken me four-and-a-half years and three pregnancies to get it, but now I understand full on why a pregnant mama’s belly is called a bump. Or, at least I understand why this rather clumsy pregnant mama’s belly is called a bump. It’s not a noun. It’s a verb.

My poor tummy. Lately it seems that everyone in the house is crashing and bashing against my, albeit beautiful, very much protruding baby bump. Last week Ben caught me with a cupboard door as I was trying to scoot around him in the kitchen. Harrison literally runs into and bounces off my belly at least once a week as he motors runs around, doing what almost-four-year-olds do. Raegan, when she graces me with her presence, usually does so by flopping in my lap with a book; she seems oblivious to the fact that my lap is all but gone these days and that what she is really doing is throwing her sweet little 20 lbs. right into her soon-to-be-here baby brother or baby sister (who, by the way, usually starts kicking and pushing back when knocked like this). And even I am not immune to the bumps of The Bump. Just the other day, while trying to prepare a meal, I turned quickly in the kitchen and scraped the front of my belly against the edge of a counter. Ow and ow is all I can say about that.

And while it may feel like just the opposite, thanks to all the Bumping, it turns out that I’m no bigger than I’ve been at this stage in the game with my first two bellies. I mean, I know this because one, my doctor’s visits tell me that my measurements – weight, fundus (I really get a kick out of that word), etc. – are right on track for what my babies have done in the past. And two, well, the proof is in the pudding pictures: