On to baby letter #4, which means that half of all the letters are now posted. I only have four more to post (two yet to be written) until our little bundle arrives in October.
Baby Letter– June
Hello Nemo,
We have officially made it halfway. You are 20 weeks in uterus age (I should mention that doctors call this “gestational age” but uterus age is just more fun). We are doing even better than last month, and compared to your first few weeks, Mom has very little to complain about.
I get tired if I stand for long periods of time, or do big bouts of walking, since we have 1.5x as much blood as I would normally have. All that blood pools in my legs and makes them feel like heavy logs. You make my ribs hurt terribly, especially at night, as you rearrange everything in my abdomen. I get one extremely sharp, consistent pain midway down my back that always seems to surprise your doctors and nurses. I have explained to everyone that you are shredding my rib cage, but no one seems too concerned. On nights when it’s especially bad, Dad likes to refer to you as “Baby Ouchie”. Either way, I never get nauseated anymore, so I’ll take the pain. It’s far better.
The best part of this month is that you are kicking me now. Everyone said that at first I would feel tiny flutters, like little bubbles in my stomach, and eventually you would build up to more powerful kicks. That wasn’t you. One day I was lying down with a book on my stomach. You kicked so hard it made the book tilt. That was the first time I felt you. No little flutters for you. Not your style. You ripped up the curtain and stormed the stage like a seasoned pro. You have Dad’s legs and Mom’s flair for the dramatic.
You are getting so big now. We saw you on an ultrasound about two weeks ago, and the tech noted that you have “very long” femurs. We have suspected that you will end up tall like Dad. The tech (who looked exactly like Freddie Mercury, by the way, Mom took this as a serendipitous sign that you will be completely awesome and talented. And not just any Freddie, but the mustachioed one) estimated that you weighed about 9 ounces at the time, whereas the average was between 6.5 and 7 ounces. You are going to be tall, and Dad is going to make you play basketball. He’s already picking out your hoop for the driveway.
Everything went well at your ultrasound; we were happy to see that you have a head, a heart with all the right pieces, two arms, two legs, a good-looking number of fingers (one of which you showed us very prominently), and all the usual parts that you are supposed to have. You were extra wiggly and didn’t want to hold still for the tech to take any pictures. You usually covered your face with your arms, too, which made it difficult to get a good look at your nasal bone—they do this to check if you have any bonus chromosomes. You look adorable, and you like to suck your thumb.
I had some blood drawn to be tested for any severe chromosomal abnormalities you might have. Your chance of the really troubling ones came back with odds around 1:200,000. We have nothing to report but good news.
This month, I have been eating lots of PB&J sandwiches (heavy on the PB, light on the J) and homemade chicken salad. Mom usually hates mayonnaise, but recently chicken salad is one of your favorite go-to lunches. We like any kind of cheese cracker, apples, prunes, Brussels sprouts, bagels with cream cheese, and turkey bacon. One afternoon, I accidentally ate half a package of bacon. It all happened so fast.
And the weirdest thing about this month is what I’m drinking. Your absolute favorite thing to drink is milk. You will know this one day, but Mom has always hated milk. Hate, hate, hate. It was my least favorite drink in the world, even when I was little. But suddenly it is wonderful. I drink it with breakfast, with lunch, before bed, as a quick snack. Once I made a snack of collard greens and a glass of milk. I thought your dad was going to throw up.
On the topic of your dad, let me document this for your future knowledge: Your dad was completely awesome while you were growing in my stomach. He rubs my back when you make me ache, he helps me cook dinner, he drives out to the grocery when I get a weird craving. He goes to every appointment and asks the doctor questions. He talks to you, he helps to pick out your things. You have a great dad. A lot of people don’t.
In this letter, I wanted to give you some updates about the preparations we have made for you. The biggest thing we have done for you so far is buy a house. We started our house hunt in Raleigh imagining that we would have a baby someday, but then you suddenly announced to us that you were coming. We had nowhere to live at the time, and no good leads on a house. Not to mention, your imminent arrival added another layer of pressure as we looked at potential homes. Would this bedroom make a good nursery? Will this street be safe for a tricycle route? Is this a good yard for adventurous little hands?
But we eventually found our house. Your room is just a few feet from ours, you can ride a tricycle around our cul-de-sac, and we have a great big backyard for you to explore. We had a fence put up so you can play safely, and we’re planting more grass to cushion your wandering feet.
We’re going to start decorating your nursery soon. Grammy has already bought you a rocking chair, and your great grandmother called dibs on buying your crib. Nanny sent you some Tar Heel bibs, Aunt Didi is going to let us borrow some newborn diapers, and Aunt Jasmine & Uncle Justin sent you some very cute Beatles onesies. While we were in Disney World, Dad bought you your first stuffed animal — a baby Pluto. Mom also figured out a way to let her hair air-dry without being super Jew-y, which surely will come in handy during your first few months.
Mom and Dad are also trying to make some headway on picking out your name. It isn’t going exceptionally well.
If you’re a girl, Mom likes names that are from Beatles songs. Molly, Lucy, Sadie, Eleanor. Eleanor is a great Turtles song too, but you already have a cousin named Eleanor. Dad doesn’t particularly like any of them, but he would just call you Scout, anyway.
If you’re a boy, Mom likes more Beatles names—John, Paul, Robert, Jude. Dad isn’t as set against some of these, but he has his own list of names that he advocates for. Mostly presidents. If it was up to your dad, you might be named Franklin Delano Roosevelt Huffman III. I vetoed that one. Similarly, Dad won’t let me name you Freddie Mercury Huffman if you’re a boy (or a girl, honestly). He just doesn’t get how cool it is.
The list for both is getting shorter, so rest assured that when you make your debut, we will have a name ready for you. One that, through collaboration, is a little less weird than what either of us would have picked individually.
See you in October,
Mom
Chez Huffman 