Dear Babycakes,
I haven't been posting, because I need to get my photos ready, but tomorrow is a big day, and so I need to put this out there, photos be damned. (Note: Please don't talk like your mama.)
Tomorrow we get to look at you, all up close and personal-like, in your little baby chamber. 10 a.m. I have to drink a big, big, big glass of water, hold it (ow! that's going to be harrrd! I'm hoping the magic of ultrasounds distracts me) and then we get to poke around and have a look-see.
We'll look at your organs, and your teeny baby-head (which I know will smell delicious once I get to hold you in my arms). We'll measure stuff, count fingers and toes. Take an inventory.
We're a little nervous, baby, even though have no real reason to be. Everything seems to be moving along like it should. In fact, we've been feeling you kick for a couple of weeks now. It's magical, each and every time. After I eat lunch or dinner, I get a few good burbles from you. I like to pretend you are approving of my diet. And when I lie down at night, you move about. I didn't think your dad would be able to feel it this early, as soon as I could, but he can feel some of them. Sometimes it feels like you're giving me a sly, secret elbow: Hey, don't forget about me! I'm here! As if I could forget. You can nudge me all day long if you want. It's reassuring.
But worrying about all this—it's just my nature. I've been talking to you about how you need to shape up and be a good, healthy baby, and that I'm doing my best on my end, but just so we're clear: We will love you no matter what.
But I sure hope the Powers That Be will declare an all-clear on you, so that we can move forward with even less hesitation than we have now. That we can just focus on the Big Question, the one everyone keeps asking:
Are you a boy or a girl?
Now, to be clear, your dad and I have a "Vote No"* sign in our front yard this election season (wow, did I pick a bad season to stop drinking, but I'll do it for you). Gender, or how you identify yourself as you get older, and often its accompanying question of who it is that you love, is not as rock-solid as we all once thought. Boys don't automatically mean trucks and girls and, well, more girls. Girls don't mean pink and dolls and chasing Prince Charming. Your dad and I get that. But I think that if there are some things that I can "control" for before you arrive, it sure would help me get prepared. And again: Whoever you come out being, we love you and accept you for who you are. How could we not? We made you.
I can't believe that this day is upon us. Kind of symbolic, in a way, that it's the day after Labor Day. The first day of school. I'm too excited to sleep.
Consider my crisp, lined notebook open and my sharpened pencil poised. We have so much to learn.
Love,
Mama
*Note to non-MN residents: We are voting this November on whether to add
an amendment to the constitution defining marriage as one being between
one man and one woman. We will be voting against it at our house, and hope
that others do the same, in the name of equal rights and protection
under the law. Not to mention the pursuit of happiness. And asinine
things like: We don't need the amendment anyway if you're against gay
marriage, because duh—gay people already can't get legally married
here. It's just mean. And stupid. And unfair. And short-sighted. And many other things. I hope my child grows up in an atmosphere of tolerance and love, and that starts with getting to the voting booths in this pregnancy. We plan to be on the right side of history.
