Monkey in the middle...of my bladder.

An Open Letter To My As-Yet Unborn Baby...

(Whom My Mother Thinks We've Found Out The Gender Of...)

(But No, We're Still Waiting To Be Surprised...)

(Even Though I Kinda Think You're A Little Girl...)

(But Look How Accurate My Psychic Prowess Turned Out During The Last Pregnancy...)

(When We Had Your Sister- A Girl. And Not A Boy.)

(I Really Hafta Learn To Condense Before I'm In Charge Of Your Baby Book.)

Hi, little baby. You're 13 ounces humongo now. I do not have hopes that you will be some sort of giant or giantess, as your Dad is of average height (note: never refer to a guy as "short," even if you know a lot of tall people. Not if you really like him, anyway) and I'm just happy to have cleared Nana Alice's lofty 4'11". As for your sister, she's the original Thumbelina.

We had your 20 week appointment today and you did great! We're going back next week for an actual profile shot and some back measurements, but I don't really mind. And sure, you rebelled at the prodding and poking and stress (I did too, but less obviously) by covering your face with your hands. I know this move. I invented this move. We will be friends.

Okay, turn your head to the side. Pretend the thing in the middle
is someone kissing a photocopier. Lips and nose. Crazy, right?

Right now you're breech- but you know what? Your sis was, too. And we think she's just the coolest. And I totally get why we could only get an eyeful of one foot at a time. Stretching is important. So are Pilates. The Flying Wallenda thing you've been doing during the day could use a breather, but I'm not a stifler. Be free! Kick my spleen...but only if it makes you Happy. And if the spleen Treats You Well. (The Money Will Come.)

I want to apologize for the crazy amount of heat we ingested two nights ago. Your Dad and I were celebrating with insanely good Thai food- and I guess I got a little carried away, what with the superpower you've given me of being immune to chilies. (Usually after curry I look like a bad Botox patient with emphysema. (You don't know what either of those are. May you never.) Regardless, I was tempted, it was delicious, and you showed your displeasure with Swiss timepiece-like precision throughout the wee hours of the morning. Point to you, shorty. The bladder action was particularly devious...although that could have easily been on me, what with the pitcher of water I consumed between each of the seven courses. 

Speaking of food, do you like liverwurst or do you just like making me eat amounts of it for which even a puppy would feel shame? Either way, we're not slowing. And the shame has yet to come.

The best shadow puppet bird I have EVER seen.

A note- that voice that you hear at night? The one that gets way up close to where [we guess] your head is and sings/speaks soothingly/snores? That's your Dad. He loves you. And you, for your part, already have his mouth. Surprise, surprise. Though, if I had to wager, you've also already got my temper. Speaking of your sister, she's the one with the bossy sentences and emphatic labeling tendencies. Her voice is much higher pitched and also much louder- but that last part is because of her constant proximity to your face. [We guess.] She loves you, too, and tells you this constantly through my bellybutton...but at this point, she actually believes that you are the bellybutton. So we'll gently ease her into this new role, shall we? For now, I hope you like the stickers and murmured choruses of "rockabee."

Sleep well tonight, Monkey. I promise to quit rolling around so much...if you do, too.

Kicky Joe.

I love you more than all of the liverwurst and pickles in the world (and other stuff that non-crazy people like as well) and can't wait to kiss your button nose.

If you'll ever let me see it.