dear delightfully tiny human the size of Romaine lettuce:
I just want to apologize, again, for that lady who poked you in the head last week.
IT SURPRISED THE HELL OUT OF ME, TOO, JUST SO WE’RE CLEAR.
See, now that we’re in the final stretch (related: OH MY GOD I GET TO DRESS YOU AS A TINY FLUFF-BEAR SO SOON), the doctors want us to come visit & hang out every single week.
Which is great—
except for the part where I still have to pee in a cup every single time, and some seriously precise acrobatics have to take place to accomplish this feat at this point in my pregnancy.
Like… imagine sitting on the toilet with a basketball in your lap, and you have to maneuver between your legs, with a cup in your hand, and catch your own pee, ALL AROUND THIS BASKETBALL.
IT IS CHALLENGING.
The actual appointments themselves, however, are cake;
they check my blood pressure, bust out an old-school measuring tape (which I think is the cutest, quaintest thing ever) to ensure you’re doing okay size-wise, then we tune in for a quick listen of your rave in the ladygarden.
Annnnnnnd then there was last week.
“We’re going to go ahead and do your Group B strep test while you’re here today,” the nurse cheerily announced.
She then left your daddy & I alone in the exam room with the requisite paper skirt (i.e., “this test ain’t for the good old-fashioned strep that lives above the waist”) and a promise that the doctor would be right in.
If it gives you any reference as to how large the Q-tip was that they used for this test, please note that when the doctor came in and picked it up, I was like, “Oh! For a second, I thought that was a toothbrush.”
I was so remiss to think the Q-tip was all I had coming.
Apparently assuming that, hey, since we were all already in attendance at the pants party anyway and why not continue the fun, the doctor abruptly switched from “hey I’ve got this Q-tip” to “I’mma just pop right on in and check your cervix CHECK IT OUT THERE’S THE BABY’S HEAD”
The one you heard shouting, “IS YOUR ENTIRE ARM IN THERE” was me, by the way.
Really, is it so much to ask that the doctor would, I don’t know,
BEFORE PETTING MY UNBORN CHILD’S SKULL
THROUGH MY CERVIX?
I ask before I pet people’s dogs, man.
Remember that day a couple weeks ago where it basically just rained down Tootsie Rolls & Snickers upon you for a solid 24 hours?
That, my tiny light, was your very first Halloween.
You were a ninja turtle.
… as well as The Pumpkin King.
(A moment here for some copious flappy arms, because guess who’s going to be here to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas with Daddy & I this year?
OH MY GOD.)
Daddy, for the record, is the actual greatest at costumes.
When we found out we were invited to a Halloween-night costume party with a gender-swapped Disney character theme—
I KNOW RIGHT, we seriously know the raddest people—
daddy came up with a homemade Elsa costume, dry ice in a cup and all, in something like 15 seconds.
What we hadn’t bargained for was that our initial plan of dunking the dry ice in some grape juice & carrying the cup around all night would result in a dramatic, frothing mess—
which, glitter bless, we discovered PRIOR to entering the carpeted home of our lovely hosts.
HI HELLO, WE’RE HERE AND WE’VE DRESSED UP AS GIGANTIC, CARPET-DESTROYING JERKS
Thus, “Elsa” kindly donated the remainder of her special effects to the punch bowls, as fitting for an ice-shooting princess person to do.
This is you and Emerson, being best friends.
Homefluff gets legitimately distressed if the two of you don’t get in a snuggle session at least once per day, and she’ll dramatically head-butt magazines/books/other living things out of the way if they dare prevent the snuggle from happening.
Y’all have a whole routine—
Emerson jumps up on my lap and nestles in as close to you as she can get, usually with her head and/or paws planted just below my ribs. As soon as she’s content and settled, I start to feel you moving and blooping around, almost always right close to where the cat is laying.
I’m so legit excited to see if this same thing translates over to when you’re actually here;
like, if we’ll bring you home and she’ll be all, MOVE HUMANS, MY TINY FRIEND HAS COME OVER, and the best-friend-forever-ing will just commence immediately.
There’s also a pretty solid chance she’ll just want to take naps in your car seat and be really confused about your existence, but whatever.
I’ve seen entire movies where forest creatures show up to help random chicks sew dresses and clean floors and stuff, SO REALLY, ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.
Everyone keeps asking me,
“ARE YOU READY TO HAVE THAT BABY YET?”
And I mean, yeah—
I’m pretty stoked for things like “getting dressed without becoming tired,” “sitting places without the assistance of pillows,” and “I CAN PUT MY SHOES ON ALL BY MYSELF!!”…
But in all honesty?
I’m in no hurry, little love.
You’ll get here exactly when you’re meant to, fully assembled and ready for snuggling.
In the meantime, I’ve always been one to find the most satisfaction & splendor in soaking up the small things, and when it comes to these last few weeks where both of our heartbeats are inside the same body?
That’s more reason than ever to slow down and properly celebrate every second.
I’m deliberately taking even more time to hold my hands over my belly and soak up the feeling of your kicks & flips against my palms;
I’m chasing your daddy constantly, shirt flipped up and belly exposed, all, HURRY FEEL, HE’S DOING SOMETHING COOL IN THERE!!!
Even the fact that I have to literally take bracing breaths and propel myself, WITH FORCE, in order to exit a vehicle (except for daddy’s truck, which I basically just fall right the eff out of);
that every time I stand up, I need to take a moment to let you “settle,” like a little baby lava lamp, and catch my balance;
even the fact that I can’t walk as far, or for as long, or at the same pace that I used to—
all of that is just part of this season we’re in together, you know?
It’s all a reminder to slow down, calm down, don’t worry, don’t hurry, trust the process.
And save for a couple of incidents where randoms just CAME AT ME BRO, I even love letting people touch my bump & catch a few of your little kicks for themselves.
It’s pure magic, you know?
The simple fact that, here you are, a product of stardust & love, and you’re doling out little baby high fives before you’ve even taken your first breath.
There aren’t even words, sweet love, to tell you how excited we are that we get to meet you soon.
I hold up your itty-bitty onesies, and I can’t believe that your squishy little baby thighs are going to be poking out the bottoms soon.
We line up your tiny shoes and marvel over the fact that your feet are going to be that small.
We catch ourselves smiling at little families we see while we’re out, and looking at each other, like, that’s going to be us soon, dude.
I open up the drawers in your dresser, just to see all the tiny, cozy sleepers waiting inside for you to dream tiny baby dreams in.
These last few weeks are ours to savor, my little lettuce.
This is it.