I am supposed to be writing you letters, but I feel a little silly doing so. Mostly because it keys right into the whole ‘everything about having a child is magical’ mindset that I think Hallmark and conservatives would like us all to believe. The truth of the matter is I don’t really have much to say to you. We were excited the other day when you started kicking. That has helped my anxiety a lot. For a while, I was convinced that I was making the whole pregnancy thing up. Aside from a very prominently missing feminine monthly situation, there wasn’t much to substantiate your existence. But now you are kicking away, so I guess you are real. Of course, you could convince me that I left the oven on in the apartment I lived in before I moved in with your dad and I haven’t been there in three years, so go figure…guess I’m a bit neurotic. Hope you don’t get that trait.
And while we are on ‘hopes’ I really hope you get your dad’s hair…and my dimples. Obviously, most importantly I hope you ‘make it to the water’. Anne Lamott talks about how when she looked at her son when he was born she was reminded of those turtles that are all born on the beaches of California. Hundreds and hundreds of baby turtles that all have to climb through the sand to get to the water before their lives even begin. And on the way to the water, they have to survive and hope not to get plucked up by a seagull or squashed by an over-zealous pre-schooler. She says she hopes her son makes it to the water…so that’s what I say. I hope you make it to the water. But after the water, I hope you have your dad’s hair and my dimples and that you are patient like your dad and no where near as neurotic and self-defacing as your mom.
Alright, that’s all I got for now.
Love you…see you soon.