Up until now, I’ve refrained from writing you a letter on The Lance. I know a lot of blogging mamas do it, but I’m kind of an old-fashioned letter-writer. One day I’ll set you up with a pen-pal and you’ll understand.
What’s there to say today?
Well, to start: I’m not centering the text on this letter. In my last post, your father asked that I opt for a left paragraph alignment. I’m sure you appreciate the readability. Your dad, he’s so fastidious.
If you take after him, you’ll be far more articulate than your mother. You’ll be grounded and rational. Thoughtful and smart. You’ll have a voracious appetite for music, politics and social science books. You’ll be a good cook.
If you take after your mother, you’ll have your head in the clouds 90 percent of the time, and in that space, you’ll run wild. Just remember: while it’s frustrating to be a dreamer, you’ll grow to appreciate the escape. Because no matter where you are, you’ll always have an out.
And just when you think you’ve lost it; when you’re fretting about passing a final exam, or paying your bills, or saving for retirement, you’ll pull out the dreamer card and though it’ll do little to solve your problems on earth, it’ll put things into perspective in that ambiguous ether that gives Buddhists peace.
At 29, if there’s one piece of advice I can give you, it’s this: I’ve met people who have it all and I’ve met people who have nothing and what I’m learning as I get older is that the path to fulfillment isn’t measured in stock dividends.
I can’t imagine what the world will be like when you’re my age, but I’m confident there will still be poetry books, good music, hot coffee, ballpoint pens and people howling at the moon.
I’m 37 weeks pregnant, which means you’re now considered full-term by doctors, midwives and the lot. To celebrate this milestone, I fed you a Thai chicken wrap at Evos, followed by a piece of chocolate pie.
If your flailing legs were any indication, I think you quite liked the lunch. Enjoy it. It’s not often that your pseudo-vegetarian mother eats chicken.
People are starting to tell me that I look like I’m going to pop.
Your mother hates that word.
Well, she hates that word now.
Before she got pregnant she used it herself to describe pregnant women. Now she knows better.
Your birthday is tentatively scheduled for June 1, but lately you’re making me think you want to be a Taurus and not a Gemini.
Why do I say this?
Well, for weeks you were punting me in the ribs, which was AWFUL. Thank you for not doing that anymore. And now you’re kicking my belly button, which only means one thing: you’re repelling down the womb.
Back in March, I got an email from one of my newspaper sources informing me of a dream she had about me –– well, you.
She dreamed that I was ignoring labor because I needed to finish a story.
“Just checking on you to make sure you are keeping a good pace and doing well,” she wrote.
In a subsequent email, she told me she felt extra compelled to share her dream because she “dreamed her son’s birth down to the letter.”
Turns out this woman is a prophet. Shortly before her son’s birth, she dreamed that her doctor was married to his nurse. Guess what? She was right. (And no, she had never met the guy, nor his nurse, prior to delivery.)
I’ve got one more week of work left, so please hold out until then. And listen. Your Nana is coming to stay with us in eight days and I know she’d like to be around for your grand entrance.
Do what you will with this information. I don’t want to boss you around before you’ve even entered the world. I realize if you’re anything like your mama, you’re impulsive. It can be a vexing personality trait.
It’s weird, but I feel like you’re already here. I feel like you’re sitting on my lap, sticking your tongue out and laughing as I write this.
I feel like I know you. Like I already know how to push your buttons. You certainly know how to push mine.
The other night, your Aunt Holly asked me if I had bonded with you.
I scoffed at the question.
“Bonded? With what? A bump?” I replied.
“Well, I don’t know. With him. With Henry,” she said.
I told her no. Not yet.
Which was an absolute lie.
It’s gotten so that I can’t remember what it was like to be me without you. We’ve already logged so many adventures. It’s a shame you won’t recall them.
You’ve been an active participant in yoga, whether you liked it or not. The ladies there call you Eggbert and they’ve watched you slowly outgrow your surroundings.
We’ve waded in the Atlantic Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico and your Aunt PK’s pool.
We’ve pedaled a long, beautiful stretch of the Florida Panhandle and photographed a long beautiful wedding in Western New York.
We’ve been stung by a jelly fish.
Your father and I held hands and kissed. He whispered in my ear, “You feeling alright?” I whispered back, “I could use a cup of ice.”
No one else knew you existed but us.
The band shot confetti out of giant bazooka guns. Balloons the size of planets began to fall. The sky was a Milky Way of confetti and thousands of outstretched hands.
You were still a secret. A queasiness in my gut. A flicker of warmth in my chest.
I wanted to picture you, but I was afraid I’d get too attached, so I threw my wishes into the air with the confetti, the balloons and the hands. And as I swayed to the music, your father put his hands on my hips and together we took for granted the cool night and the ripeness of impeccable possibilities.