Letter to Cider, weeks 35/36

Dear Cider,

This might be my last in-utero letter to you. I'd like to think I'll be organized enough to write one more but looks like, if I'm still pregnant with you in four to five more weeks, my schedule will be filled up by The Bitching and The Moaning of an animal that has been pushed just a little TOO FAR.

I'm always compelled to mitigate these complain-y sentences after I say them, like, "My GOD! Remove the bowling ball!" "But no, pregnancy is incredible and I can't believe I'm growing a baby and all things considered my experience has been better than most and please don't smite me God for the Ungrateful and (most importantly) to the other ladies who have given birth please don't look at me like I've just grown several extra ears just because I don't LOOOOVE pregnancy." The truth is though, pregnancy, at least for me with you Cider, has been like just about everything else in my life so far. Easy and hard. Fun and less than. Miraculous and everyday my back hurts. One minute interesting and the next more-of-the-same. I've never, and I suspect you'll experience this too, felt the way I SHOULD feel. It is always some bizarre mixture of the typical human condition mixed with my own special brand of Different and Crazy. I've thought about copyrighting those two but turns out, if you talk to anyone long enough, they've owned them also. Turns out we're all trying desperately to cram each other into boxes, all the while resenting a little bit the ones we've allowed ourselves to be crammed into.

The other night your father and I were talking and he asked me what I wanted you to be. "You mean, like for a profession?" to which he replied something like, "Yeah." I thought for a miute and then said I don't really care. Because I don't. You might come out artsy, or you might inherit my mother's incredibly literal, math-y brain in which case no, I cannot help you with your homework. Point is there is absolutely no way for me to know, or better, to understand your inclinations. So for that bit you are on your own. What I do wish though, what I fervently wish, is for you to develop the kind of confidence it takes to follow your instincts and to follow your dreams. I have a suspicion I have written on this subject before and it has made me face some of my own regrets but more importantly, how much that is something I hope to instill in you, something I really hope you are lucky enough to possess. People will tell you over and over that this is a cheesy sentiment, but those are the same people who are stuck in a cubicle eight hours a day, re-checking their email hoping for maybe a dirty forward, or even a stupid forward because By God they need to remember that they are alive. I've been there, been there to pay the bills and sometimes that is necessary. But if it is something you are compelled to do? Something you know deep down is part of who you really are? Put your fingers in your ears every time you see someone start to sigh and give you the "practical speech". Say LALALALALA loudly until that mouth has stopped moving. And try and keep trying, because I believe you can.

Yesterday I visited with a pediatrician to see if we would like him - and here this is guess work, because I'm doing all the out-of-womb work for your personality - and I think we really will. This was surprising in that our dogs have been to...um...five vets since we moved here? But he came across as both kind and very intelligent and that may be my favorite combination ever. Keep an eye out for both. One without the other doesn't mean a whole lot. Anyway, I dipped my toe into the dreaded vaccination talk and was impressed by his calm but impassioned speech in favor of them - duh, he's a DOCTOR Hope - which is around the time I decided we would certainly be giving him a try. Plus, you're going to love the waiting room, it is filled with primary colors, lots of them, and little chairs scattered about the place for you to play. I still remember my weekly allergy shot from when I was wee, but do you think it's the sting of the shot or the inevitable small lump that developed EVERY TIME at the site of injection I still think of? No, it is emphatically the tootsie roll pop I got each time I left. Oh that gooey, chocolate-y center.

In these last few weeks Cider, I continue to jump from excitement to meet you, nervousness to give birth (ODD dreams), and a sense that his baby thing is NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Being pregnant has turned out to be a monumental waiting game. When all is said and done, you and I have been attached for nearly a YEAR, and sometimes it still doesn't seem real. Like, what, you honestly think we're about to become parents? Phshaw, watch as I remove this giant pillow from under my shirt. But then, then I walk by your room, your lonely little room that is just aching for your small and squawking self - and here I am not projecting at all - and I know you have to get here, if for nothing else, to fill that lonely space.

Comments

[Sarah S.]

I liked this. It made me a little teary eyed.