Letter to Cider, 24.5 weeks

Dear Cider,

You kick ass. Or, more specifically, lower belly and sometimes front of stomach. SAH-REE for the bad joke but can you expect much more when my blood supply is pumping every bit of oxygen rich blood straight to your placenta? NO HARD FEELINGS.

Actually, no, really, there aren't. It is biologically very difficult to resent anything about your small self growing and kicking inside of me. My only regret these days is that I still have 16 weeks until I am able to hold you and I am consumed by the nerve-wracking thoughts of WHAT IF YOU HAVE A BAD DREAM? How do I possibly comfort you in there? I have your father and, though sometimes reluctantly, he allows me to press the flats of my feet to his calves when I have a nightmare and, oddly, this is usually all it takes for my adrenalin level to drop and sleep to over take again.  I will regret saying this once the crowing at home begins, but everybody needs a hero and I am fortunate enough to have married mine. Should the entire pre-World War Two British Army* come traipsing through our front door one dark and stormy night, I am confident I could simply wave my relaxed hand in Bud's direction all, please remove this peskiness from our living room. AND HE COULD HANDLE IT.

My guess is you will look at us both that way for some time, slaying dragons, unable to make mistakes (more likely just better practiced at covering them up), and the prettiest, handsomest parents on the block. Then you'll turn thirteen. The end. We will no doubt watch our stars tumble completely from your eyes and instead of a little chest puff - no MY DAD could! - you will look to the sky in the universal teenage prayer of PLEASE SWALLOW ME - until I bellow at you to "Get in the damn car and stop being so dramatic, I am only Windexing the windshield in my slippers. BIG DEAL." At this point you will probably begin plotting your revenge full of getting a drivers license, having the job of your dreams and living far, far away. Let me go ahead and say now, I feel you. Just ask your grandfather who would routinely, upon driving me around town, roll down MY SIDE window and yell at passing cars, "My daughter thinks you're cute!"

But the revenge plans? I can't even remember a single one. No, more often than not I think about the fact that I used to complain about what my mother cooked for me on a given night. Emphasis on COOKED FOR ME. But you'll understand that someday in the far off future and I will lecture you, no doubt, in a few years when I put a plate of lovingly prepared walnut goat cheese salad in front of you and you and your father chant in unison, "GOD DANGED GOAT CHEESE?!"

In pregnancy updates, I think you and I might have finally gotten it right what with the nausea being nearly gone and your movements becoming stronger every day. They are no longer as surprising and yet I wake up every morning looking forward to all of those little jerks and presses against my belly. Last night I grabbed your father's arm and gently pressed my finger into it twice, trying to show him what it feels like when you start doing your leg presses in there. Contrary to the whole term "baby kicking", sometimes you feel as if you are just stretching, or pushing against my belly, or even turning on your head no doubt preparing yourself for all of those keg stands in college. I will go on the record now as saying I do not condone those types of behavior but what with mine and your father's DNA? I'll leave that one alone - a punch line perhaps for your smart-ass aunt Georgia.

Cider-baby (as Ella now refers to you), I only have one more question for you before ending this letter. What color do you want your room to be painted? I'm leaning towards a coffee and cream color but I think your dad envisions more of a true brown. Go ahead and give me a kick...or movement...or keg stand to let me know you prefer my idea.

I KNEW IT.

*I obviously have no idea what I am referring to historically here but I do remember something once about the British Army in its heyday and blah blah blah. Could have been 50 years before, give or take 100.

Comments

[Sarah S.]

Coffee and cream. Straight up brown is so over. Sorry Bud.

[Tammy]

I agree Sarah, and straight up brown can be so dreary sometimes - Maci's antique furniture is painted SUB and sometimes I just feel so blah in there. On another note - what a great letter! I can't wait for these all throughout Cider's infancy/childhood/adult life! The only thing I recall ever being taught about the British Army is that although they usually lose, they are a darn determined bunch that see the ability to "give it your all" as just as important concept as victory itself. I kind of admire that!

[Hope Sypert]

Guess what? Yesterday's hormones totally did a 180 on me and I have decided on white! For the entire room! With brightly colored accents. I don't know, I saw it in Pottery Barn or something.

[The Mom]

White with coffee accents and maybe even coffee trim. Hmmm, sounds delicious, actually. I must be hungry (or hongry, as they say in these two Rawlings books I have just read. I can't get the vernacular out of my head. - The Yearling and Cross Creek.)

[MIL]

Oh! Just go ahead and paint it Purple, because as soon as Cider can talk She/He will say "I want it and MOOOOMMMM it is my room!" They never want something stylish. It will be the color you hate the most.

[bud]

Sorry folks, but coffee and cream seemed really pink to me. Besides, Hope is overexagerating how dark I really wanted the paint.