Dear sweet baby—
Dude, you aren’t even going to believe how many awesome clothes I have waiting for you when you get here.
Like, YOU CAN LEGITIMATELY SPEND DAYS DRESSED AS A TINY, FLUFFY BEAR.
Last week, through the sorcery of modern technology, we got to watch you take a nap on my placenta.
I’m pretty proud of your commitment to naps, by the way.
Homegirl with the ultrasound wand was getting all up in your baby-bubble, poking around to make sure a CPC they’d found last month had gone away, and you were just like, OKAY BUT I’M NESTLED, GTFO
Also, can we just talk about how you have the most adorable nose ever?
The ultrasound screen switched from an assortment of indistinguishable blobs—
which are probably all of your organs,
which I know we’ve worked really hard on growing these past six months,
which is so intensely cool that OMG WE GREW ORGANS TOGETHER HIGH FIVE WITH YOUR TINY HANDS…
but for serious, they all just look like blobs right now, no offense—
anyway, all of a sudden, we switched from blob view to front view, and there you were.
You and your cute little nose.
You and your nap.
I might’ve burst into tears about it, and by “might’ve,” I mean I definitely did.
YOUR NOSE IS SO GREAT, DUDE.
I am fully that pregnant chick who keeps your creepy, melted-looking ultrasound pictures pinned to my cube wall at work, and every time I see that shot of your nose, it’s all I can do to NOT lean over and start eskimo-kissing it.
I promise I haven’t—
but I have absolutely directed cube visitors to view it when they come by and ask how I’m feeling.
It’s all, “How’s the second trimester been?” and I’m like, “It’s aight, HEY LOOK MY KID GREW A REALLY CUTE NOSE IT’S RIGHT THERE.“
I’m just really proud of you okay.
This week, you’re apparently the size of a turnip.
Which is really rad and all, except I haven’t ever seen a turnip in actual life & thus this comparison means nothing to me.
Really, who are the people that decided produce was the acceptable unit of fetal size development?
CAN WE JUST NOT
CAN WE JUST NO LONGER
At least this week’s comparison feels less confusing than the week that you were the size of a banana.
Like, legit spent that entire week imagining you as this human-banana hybrid, which was exactly as horrifying as you’d imagine.
(Equally confusing: The week you were a green pepper.)
In non-produce-related news, we’re spray-painting you a dresser—
and by “we,” I mean “your daddy is doing it all, and I just marvel at how freaking great it looks”—
and that’s approximately as far as we’ve gotten with your room decor.
WE MIGHT NOT HAVE A ROOM READY FOR YOU, BUT DAMNED IF WE DIDN’T MAKE SURE THE “DRESSING YOU LIKE A BEAR” ASPECT WAS COVERED.
For real, though, don’t worry.
Your dresser is going to look incredible when it’s finished, and then I’m going to fill it full of the frillion striped onesies I’ve been hoarding & all the tiny pants that have feet built into them, and that should be enough to inspire the rest of the room to come together, too.
Did you know, by the way, that you already have your own little schedule?
I can usually feel you dancing around when I eat something—
which is pretty much how I feel when I eat things, too, so clearly I’m already raising you right—
but also, almost every night around 10 o’clock, it’s suddenly arms and legs and baby party time. It’s like some sort of little baby sunrise shows up & you’re in there like WHAT UP MORNING
Except it is not morning.
We’ve got to discuss this further before you get here.
In the meantime, my little love, keep being tiny and awesome.
I’ll keep feeding you cheese pizza, tomatoes, chocolate-fudge PopTarts, salads so big they require mixing bowls, and every fruit that wanders into my line of sight, ever.
This is the coolest thing we’ve done together so far.
Mama loves your face.