Dear Little One,
Your daddy was home this weekend, and right when he arrived, he spent a good thirty minutes talking to you through the walls of my belly.
If you heard him–Google says you can’t fully hear until the 18th week, and it’s only your 15th–but if you did, you’d hear how he committed to teaching you things, first among them swimming, but too bad you won’t be out til the next five or six months. That’s him being excited.
If you heard him, you’d note how much he told you to go easy on your mother and to always listen to her. That’s him being caring.
You would have heard the smooches he gave you through the skin of my stomach. That’s him being sweet.
You would have heard us talking about when you finally arrive, how we’re going to rearrange the furniture and our lives to make room for you. That’s us being practical.
You would have heard how we agreed that you will take over our entire universe, that there will be no turning back, no pause button. That’s us being realistic.
But what you would not have heard is the fear of facing it all. Because there isn’t any.
Of course I’m growing increasingly anxious about the actual moment of delivery, but about having you and everything it entails? You would have heard us say “bring it on!”
If the conviction in our eyes translated through voices, ours would be resonating clearly that for all things yet to come, we got this. Or we probably don’t, but at this point, we will do everything in our power to get this.
Listen, my love. That’s us being ready.
P.S. Speaking of listening, you didn’t let us listen to your heartbeat on Doppler during this week’s appointment. Doctor said you were moving too much!