Baby Letter #8– October

It’s time for my final baby letter. If you’re new to my blog, my husband and I are expecting our first child in just over two weeks. Each month since I found out I was pregnant, I have written a letter to my baby, both for our bonding now, but also for my son/daughter to have as a memento. You can read through the other letters below. But this one is my favorite.

 

Baby Letter– October

Hello Nemo,

Well my tiny darling, we made it. There were many times this year that I thought today would never come, but it has. This is my last letter to you. It’s time for you to come out now.

It’s a strange feeling for me. On the one hand, I see myself in the mirror, and I think that my body can’t possibly expand any more. My stomach is comically large. It looks ridiculously out of place contrasted to the rest of me. I can feel your weight independent from my own. The pressure that you create at the bottom of my abdomen sometimes feels unbearable. Honestly, Dad and I are still worried that you’re going to come a bit earlier than anyone expects. Especially these last few days. You get a wild hair every once in a while.

On the other hand, I look at my stomach and I try to imagine being able to see through it. For you to be a whole person inside of there, you must be little. Too little. How could something so small be ready for life?

But I know that you are. Physically, you might be vulnerable, but nothing about your personality is feeble. You are feisty. You kick and thrash and jump all around constantly. At this stage, most women are supposed to do kick counts — a task to track movement around the same daily period, to make sure the baby isn’t decreasing its activity level. I’ve never bothered with that for us, because it would just be an exercise in how high I can count. You don’t stop moving. I think on your birthday, you’re going to be delighted with how much room you suddenly have. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you started rolling and crawling the next day.

I can tell from the placement of your kicks that you are head down and that you have dropped into my pelvis (called “lightening”). I feel much better because of that, since it means you are ready to be born. I’m guessing that you’ll be about 8 pounds and 21 inches long. I’m dying to see what you look like.

This letter is a little different from our others, but it’s been forming in my mind for months. Physically, I’m not so different from last month. Food wise, we’re not so different. Preparation wise, more things are prepared now than before. Everything is falling into place. I think that frees me up to tell you about something more important. My last piece of letter wisdom.

I want you to always know that from the very first moment you started to form, you were loved and desperately wanted. You were half a surprise, really; we had already decided that we were ready for you, but you decided to come immediately. And that surprise was met with an unbelievable feeling of joy. We wanted you to make us parents. We wanted you in our family.

I want you to know how blessed I am to be your mother. More than that, I want you to understand what that really means.

Carrying you in my body isn’t what makes me your mother. I’m not your mother because I will give birth to you or bring you home from the hospital. I’m not even your mother because we share genes. Some moms don’t give birth to their babies. Some of them don’t share genes with each other. And some mothers, although they love them very much, don’t get to bring their babies home from the hospital.

It’s not any of those things. It is a bond we share, but it doesn’t have anything to do with our genetics.

This is what makes me your mother:

Of all the people in your life, I was the first who would have done anything for you.

From the moment I knew you were coming, I gave up everything that might be bad for you, even the ones I loved. When you’re older and you know Mom’s personality, you’re never going to believe that I gave up Champagne and sushi for almost a year. I did. And I hated that part. But you were more important.

Even when I was my absolute sickest, I refused to take medications just in case they might harm you. The only exception I made was the night I had an out-of-control fever that I knew was worse for you. I took the fever medicine, and I iced my body down with cold towels, which was just as uncomfortable as it sounds. It didn’t matter, because making sure you didn’t get too hot was my only priority.

Protecting you became my instinct. It’s the reason why when I stepped into a hot shower, my reflex was to turn my back into the spray. It’s the reason why whenever music started to play, I always turned the volume down first. I haven’t listened to a song as loud as I’ve wanted to in months.

It’s the reason I’m willing to let someone cut me open while I’m awake, if they need to. Only while I’m awake, actually. There is no way I would miss it. In a few weeks, there is going to be one exact moment that your life begins. You will take your first breath, experience true light for the first time, hear your first uninhibited sounds, feel air on your skin. You won’t be a part of me anymore; you will be your own completely independent person. And I will be right there, to hold you and kiss you and tell you how very loved you are. I won’t let you be scared. I’ll never let you feel alone.

Your dad will quickly become the second person who would do anything for you. And then there will be other people in our family, people who will love you like we do. In the future, you will share this bond with a sibling (or two). I hope in your life you collect dozens of these people. Your best friends, cherished mentors, and someday a man or woman who thinks that you make their life complete.

But for these last few weeks, it’s you and me. I was the first. That’s what makes me your mother.

I love you unconditionally. I always will.

See you in three weeks,

Mom