Son,
I'm days away from seeing your face, and soon enough I won't remember life without that face in it, so I'm writing this for the both of us -- so you will know what your mother was thinking the days leading up to your arrival and so I will never forget.
I used to talk to you, before you ever existed, when you were just a hope. I used to tell you how much I wanted you, how I would try forever to get you, and how I would love you even if you wanted to vote Republican one day. Then, when we got the news you were growing inside me, I held my breath, desperately hopeful nothing would take you away from us. I'm sorry if I wished away those first few weeks of pregnancy, always wanting to get a few more days under my belt, convinced you'd be safer tomorrow. Your mama is working really hard to stop wishing the days away, to stop holding her breath so much, certain the good is reserved for tomorrow. I know the good is right now, and I'm going to do my damnedest to stay in each moment with you.
I didn't love being pregnant every moment of every day, and I'm not going to lie to you and say I did. In fact, there will be days when you're a crabby and moody teenager when I will remind you -- in great detail -- just how sick you made me. I love you, baby boy, but using that against you one day is what we call a perk of this job. But, I must say, life doesn't get more beautiful than feeling your child move within you. People said it would make all the other symptoms bearable and they were unequivocally right. Even though I still have two precious days to feel those movements, I guarantee I have missed them every day since.
I like to think that because of these last nine months, you and I will always have a secret between us. Although I don't know what the future holds or if you'll ever have a little sister or brother, this inside secret is one of the main reasons I hesitate to ever do this again -- not because pregnancy royally kicked my ass but because I like that it's just us in this club, that, for now, no one else is a member. I would put my hand on my stomach during my pregnancy and you'd never stop moving, sometimes you'd even kick a little harder. But when anyone else would come near me, you'd freeze, as if you knew it was a different hand. I could be making that up, but I like to believe you already know me and that you'll recognize me for the rest of your life. Even if you don't tell me about the girl (or boy!) you have a crush on or the parties you're sneaking out of the house to go to or the light pole you ran your dad's Mustang into, I hope you'll always recognize me, that you'll always know my hand from another's. (But you can tell me about the light pole. We'll figure it out together.)
Speaking of your dad, I did good, didn't I? You can thank me by not rolling your eyes at me 9 million times a day in about 13 years. Although I am a lot of really cool things your dad is infinitely cooler. I think you're really going to enjoy life with him on your team. It softens all the falls, multiplies all the joys and makes everything that much sweeter. I am sorry about what he fills our DVR with, though. Unless you enjoy those same shows, and if you do, I have failed as a mother. It's official.
I want a lot for you, as I think all moms do. I want you to have more than I have, I want you to be smarter and kinder and funnier. I want you to find something you're passionate about and go after it. I want you to feel great love and great hope. I want you to be grounded and self-assured. I want you to read more than I have made the time to. But, mostly, I want you to follow your heart and be true to yourself above all other things. I want you to know that I will never waver in my support of you, and I will stand up beside you endlessly, but, baby, if you want to try out for American Idol and you cannot sing, I am going to try and prepare you for what may happen. Nothing breaks my heart more than those poor, awful singers standing in front of the judges, CRYING ON NATIONAL TELEVISION and managing to say, "But my mom says I'm a great singer." I will go with you to the auditions. I will bedazzle signs. I will also pull you aside and talk about a little thing we call a back-up plan. I love you enough to be honest with you, and I hope that in being honest with you, you'll be honest with me right back and let me know when I'm wearing mom jeans.
I'm not sure what our life is like in the future. I don't know if I get my act together to cook us all dinner more regularly or if I tackle the laundry before the laundry, literally, tackles me. I do know that our life before you was sweet and simple and beautiful in all the most important ways, and it's because of how happy we were before you that we wanted you so badly. You weren't a solution or a Band-aid or a quick fix. You were something we prayed for and tried for and even though I am just terrified about Thursday and how exactly getting you out is going to go down, there has never been a day that I haven't thought adding you to our family was one of the best ideas your dad and I ever came up with together.
We had this slight little scare halfway through my pregnancy, and because your mother is CRAZY, I spent a good few days unsure of what was really going on with you and instead of just relaxing and breathing and watching reality television, I Googled every possible outcome. I had myself so scared and worked up, I was positive we'd never see your birthday, and I began doing what I imagine all mothers do at some point: bargaining. I don't really care how religious you are or aren't, I think there comes a time in everyone's life when they say, "Screw it, I'll give praying a try," because they are so desperate to avoid a certain outcome. You can't really appreciate that yet, I know, and it'll be years before you do, but halfway through my pregnancy, when I thought you weren't entirely safe inside me, I began offering myself up in order to assure you'd be just fine. I haven't held you yet, seen your eyes, heard your cry, but, baby, my life already seems like a small price to pay for yours. Yes, yes, your mother is so dramatic, but, love, it's true. I'd do it all for you and then some. And, really, I think all that alcohol I avoided over the last almost year does more than prove that.
I can't wait to meet you.
Love,
Your Mama