Dear Baby Boy,
For no reason in particular, I thought I’d check in and write you a letter today. It was never my plan to write you letters, seeing that, well, you’re unborn, but the urge has struck and I am indulging it.
You are 33 weeks old yesterday. There is nothing special about the 33 week mark, except my books tell me you are now looking more like a baby and less like an alien. This is good news.
Last weekend, I flew home to California for my baby shower. I say my baby shower, but really, it’s all for you, Baby. I am merely the vessel. But still, it was beautiful. It was beautiful that so many people gathered in anticipation of your arrival…to celebrate your existence before you even take your first breath. Everyone circled around me and ooh’ed and aww’ed over my large belly, warning me that, 40 weeks be damned, you could come anytime within an eight-week window.
I had to bite my tongue not to inform these well-meaning, lovely people of their inaccuracy. You see, despite what the statistics say, I am secretly hoping you will be born on your due date. The height of punctuality and consideration.
Back to the shower. It was held at your grandmother’s cottage, a place you will grow to love because, as Grandma says, “What happens at Grandma’s, stays at Grandma’s.” It was co-hosted by your Aunt Emily, a woman you will be able to identify by her red hair and outspoken commitment to perfect oral hygiene.
My flight arrived back to Seattle at 1am on Monday morning. As soon as I walked in the door, I promptly ate two large bowls of cereal. Your father calls this a “craving.” I will allow him to think this because it benefits me to do so. In reality, large bowls of cereal in the early hours of the morning is something I believe everyone would enjoy.
Cereal and fruit have been my dietary preferences these last few weeks. I hope you don’t mind, but I blame all of this on you. I say “blame,” because the organic peaches and nectarines I consume three or four times a day cost about $4.99 a pound, and your father keeps threatening to return your crib in order to fund my produce consumption. Luckily, cereal is cheap, so the six varieties we currently have in our pantry will not come at the expense of your carseat.
I need to write thank-you notes for all the lovely gifts you received, so I should wrap this up. The next time you hear from me, I may be screaming or crying or otherwise a wreck. I have no idea what to expect, but I am told it will be inordinately painful. I would do this only for you.