Tuesday, July 27

I found out about you on Friday, July 2nd.  That was three weeks after you were but a single cell, and now, if what I read in the books is right, you have a spine, four chambers of a beating heart, and you’ve started creating everything that, presumably, you’ll one day need when you are stealing my car keys and rifling through my jacket pockets for loose change.

Jon would be really upset if he knew I was already writing to you.  I can’t help but risk it, since I’ve been talking to you here and there already – never out loud, and never anything interesting – but I’ve been thinking about writing to you since the day this adventure began.  So here I am.  I know we’re just shy of eight weeks along, and so we’re way shy of being out of the woods yet, but I need to write about my life for the first time in years, so, here I am.

In case you are wondering, I am tired all the time.  Tired doesn’t begin to describe it.  I am deeply, utterly, exhausted, incapable, sometimes, of the mere act of walking from the couch to the bed.  I’d say that I’m gaining weight at an alarming weight, except, I’m not remotely alarmed.  So far I’m not barfing – not even nauseous – and my doc says that my continually grazing all day may be what is keeping the ick at bay.  However, all I ever want to eat is grapes and cereal, and those do not a balanced diet make.

I think one of the reasons I’m writing to you is that I see people – family, friends, strangers – passing babies back and forth, making them giggle, spending hours just to get a laugh out of them – and I can’t help but wonder: was I loved like that?  Was I passed around and nuzzled and adored?  I bet I was – I’m sure I was – but I’m sorry I missed it, although I’m sure the knowledge is somewhere in my hind brain.  So, I’m here to tell you that you were loved like that from day one.  Heck, from 40 weeks negative.

Jon and I have to decide soon about genetic testing.  In one test, they’d put a needle in me and pull out some of the blood from your umbilical cord.  In another, they’d put a needle in me and pull out some amniotic fluid.  Both scare the crap out of me, both cuz of the pain, and cuz of my inability to deal with trauma well.  I can set a compound fracture in the middle of the woods, but I get woozy at the sight of a needle if it’s coming in my direction.  So, I’m nervous about these tests, and the effect they will have on me, and therefore you.  I also, for my own reasons, don’t believe the test is necessary.  But I’m of “advanced maternal age”, so I have to do it – I should do it – and I’m probably going to do it sooner rather than later.  I’m hopeful that you are less squeamish, more able to take physical stress than I am.  I’ll need you to be.

These days, all I want to do is lie down and read about you, and think about what my life will be like if we are lucky enough to have you in our lives.  Instead, I need to go to bed now, at 9:30, if I have any hope of having enough energy to get through the work day tomorrow.  So, until next time, hang in there, kiddo.  Be strong.