It was nearly 3AM when the third tiny kick landed squarely in Jenna’s ribs.

She groaned softly, turning onto her side to face you, her voice low and scratchy with sleep.

“She’s trying to start a mosh pit.”

The room was dim, lit only by the soft nightlight shaped like a crescent moon on the dresser. Between you and Jenna, your 6-months-old daughter lay horizontally—because apparently that was her preferred sleeping position—feet planted against Jenna’s stomach, head somehow angled toward your shoulder, and one tiny hand resting dramatically across her own face like a soap opera star in distress.

Jenna reached out, trying to gently reposition the baby without waking her, but the second she tried, a tiny grunt of protest escaped the miniature chaos gremlin.

You both froze.

The baby sighed, smacked her lips… and flopped the other direction—this time giving your stomach a solid thump with her heel.

Jenna stifled a laugh into your arm.

“She’s either gonna be a dancer or a professional wrestler.”