Dear Baby

Dear Baby,

Sorry we’re still calling you “baby.” We were calling you “it” before,which just seemed wrong. We tried “the little guy” but, since we don’t know you’re gender yet, that seemed a little off. I’ve told your dad that we need some kind of a working title here. I tried “bambin-na-no,” but it’s a mouth full. We thought about calling you by a boxer’s name because of the way you moved during your first sonogram, but all we could think of was “Sugar Ray” and “Million Dollar Baby” (we don’t watch much boxing). Also, while healthcare can be expensive, we really hope you don’t cost a million dollars to introduce into the world. Right now, my favorite working title is “Minja” because at one point, not too long ago, I’m pretty sure you could have fit into a plentine pack of gum. I’m sure you could also do some “top shelf killing” if you wanted to.

Speaking of top shelf killing, I feel like we should have a little chat since we’re going to be sharing this body for the next four to five months or so. I am you’re mother, and I love you. I try to feed you healthy food so you can grow up big and strong, but all you seem to want is nachos. And you REALLY want nachos. Also, what’s with the sudden food aversion to peanut butter? I’m about ready to puke every time a see a Reeses commercial. What’s the deal with that? Peanut butter is a cheap and easy source of protein, and we should probably ease up on the massive amounts of cheese and yogurt that you seem to be after all the time. I do have to hand it to you on the produce section of Smiths the other week. That pregnancy super sense of smell thing is a neat trick. The fruit section was an absolute delight. However, if we could keep that kinda stuff down around the fish isle, or when we’re standing next to someone who is obviously using a kielbasa for a toothbrush, that would be nice. We need to eat, and we need to keep our food down. Cool? On a similar note, I know with you in my stomach, I need to drink massive amounts of water. I get that, and I’m on it. But if you could keep from jumping on my bladder as soon as it gets full,  I think  we’d all be a bit better off. It’s flu season, and we really don’t need to be running to the germ infested bathrooms at work every hour on the hour.

Can we talk about the waterworks for a second too? I’m sure there is some biological reason that I had to cry when Kelly Clarkson sang “My Country Tis if Thee” at the inauguration. (We didn’t even listen to the speech). I’m sure there’s something about sensitivity making you a good mom, and yeah, we love America, and even Kelly Clarkson, but we just can’t let this happen all the time. We cry at hymns and lullabys, we cry because Sam loves Frodo SO MUCH, and let’s not even discuss country music right now. Here’s the deal. We’re already stuffy and sore leftover from the bronchitis we had a few weeks ago (see what I mean about those public restrooms?) and all this blubbering really isn’t helping. Maybe we should stick to comedies for a while. We look like a cartoon pregnant lady (ok, that one’s just me).

With that out of the way, let me just say that your dad and I are so excited to get a good glimpse of you.  We get a little sneak peak just before Valentines day, when we’ll get to go for a sonogram and find out what gender you are. Forget Ringling Brothers! That’s the greatest show on earth! When you had been with me for about eight or nine weeks, we were in the midwife’s office listening for your heartbeat. They couldn’t find it right at first, so they brought out a sonogram machine. I figured you’d be too teeny to do much, just sorta floating, happy to be a fetus, but man was a wrong. You were running a marathon in there! When they’ve had to find you’re heartbeat since, they always have to chase you. I can’t wait to see what you’re doing in there now. I keep feeling something moving around, but I can’t really tell at this point if that’s me or you. Maybe I’ll get a better sense of that soon.

It really doesn’t matter to us whether you’re a boy or a girl. I’ll probably put you in a dress at some point either way. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of respectable men were be-dressed by their mothers in infancy. I’m pretty sure Abraham Lincoln wore a dress as a baby, and look how he turned out. He’s Abraham Lincoln! If that’s the most embarrassing thing we do as you’re parents, then you’re doing ok. (When I say we, I mostly mean me. I don’t think there is any way your dad would let a son of his be be-dressed. I guess he’s got your back like that). If you’re a girl, you’ll probably play soccer with your Dad and catch frogs and stuff, but that’s a lot more socially acceptable than boys wearing dresses these days. If you are a girl, we have other worries. I really hope Honey-boo-boo is an outdated reference by the time you’re old enough to read this. But let’s not do that, ok?

Anyway, we love you and we’re so excited to meet you. We use the phase “miracle of life” all the time without really thinking about what that means. The longer I spend thinking about you growing and developing inside me, the more that phrase has meaning. When I think that we all progress from a tiny single cell into a fully functioning person with eyelashes, a heartbeat, and a brain with a hundred trillion synapse, I can’t even begin to comprehend it. When I think about the fact that all that is going on inside of me—inside of you--all I am awed and humbled all at once. You are  a living soul with your own personality, perfectly known by God, with every hair on your head numbered. You are ours, you are God’s, and you are your own. You are a miracle.