Dear Cletus,
Happy Thanksgiving - by this time next year you will be five months old, which means that you won't be old enough to understand how awesome it is that we have a national holiday devoted to gluttony, since the only thing you will be eating is milk and formula. Still, you'll learn. Oh, you'll learn.
You should know that I routinely out-eat your dad. This is a pre-pregnancy tradition - how a 5'2" chick can always manage to out-eat a 6'2" man who easily outweighs her by a hundred pounds is beyond me. Sometimes I envy your dad's self-control, since I always end meals feeling stuffed and a little sick. But mostly, it's a point of pride.
I feel like I used to get weird looks weird when I would start on my third helping at dinner, but now that everyone knows about you, they think it's cute how much I'm eating. I'm telling you, I should have faked a pregnancy long ago if I'd known this would happen.
Speaking of eating, here are some of the things that you apparently like, based on my eating habits over the past 4 days:
turkey & stuffing
sweet potato casserole with marshmallows
pecan pie
apple pie
chocolate pie
cookies
cake pops
ice cream
chocolate chips
cranberry sauce with marshmallow whip
eggnog lattes from Starbucks
hot cocoa with whipped cream
Here are some of the things that you apparently don't like, based on what I did not eat:
salad
tofu
anything low-fat
fruit
vegetables
If we're going to take my eating habits as any indication, the obesity epidemic that is apparently sweeping the nation starts in utero.
Of course, since family and friends just recently found out about you, much of the conversation during Thanksgiving centered around you. There was a lot of speculation over whether you will be a boy or a girl, and many questions about which one your dad and I want (as if we can order from a catalog). Now, I don't know about your dad; but for me, it comes down to this: while everyone is supposed to say that they just want ten fingers and ten toes and a healthy kid, I'm a bit more ambitious in my hopes for my offspring. Not about the sex; in fact, I don't really care if you're a boy or girl, as long as you manage to be a perfect combination of your dad's and my interests. More specifically, if you could be a die-hard A's fans who also enjoys a well-sung motet, that would be great.*
But seriously, your dad and I don't care if you're a boy or girl. You'll find that we're not overly concerned about traditional gender stuff - I don't wear a lot of pink, I can't cook to save my life, and your dad likes musicals. So we won't care if you're a rough-and-tumble tomboy who likes climbing trees more than playing with dolls, and we'll show our support through dozens of youtube videos if you announce to us that rather than play football, you've discovered the joy of dance (especially if you learn to dance like this guy).
Once Thanksgiving was over, your dad and I devoted the rest of the weekend to decorating for Christmas. This involved the standard holiday tradition of stringing lights onto the house, getting out the decorations, and bickering over who had to clean up the pine needles once the tree was set up. I'm not usually very excited about holiday decorations; while I enjoy the end product, the process of dragging out boxes and clearing year-round stuff out of the way to make room for porcelain Santa figurines makes me tired. But this time, I got a little more excited about the prospect. I don't know if I was just feeling maternal, or if Elvis' "Blue Christmas" on the ipod got to me, but dammit if the Christmas tree lights just seemed like they were worth the trouble of untangling this year.
So now it's the end of the Thanksgiving weekend, your dad and I have a fully-decorated house, and you are giving me an excuse to eat whatever I want, despite what all the baby blogs say. Oh, and thanks to Amazon.com, we were able to do most of our Christmas shopping without ever leaving the house on Black Friday. Dare I say, it's going to be a great holiday season?
Love,
Your soon-to-be-mom
* preferably simultaneously
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
For the Love of God, Eat the Goddamn Pizza
Dear Cletus,
I just finished eating a handful nitrate-soaked deli meatrolls, so if you come out with three arms, that's why. Why would deli meatrolls give you three arms, you ask? Also, what is a meatroll?
A meatroll is the name I've given to one of my favorite snacks. Despite the fact that its name sounds sleazy, it's just delicious. Pick your deli meat (pick your favorite - ham, turkey, salame), squirt some yellow mustard down the middle, roll it up, eat. This is one of the best things ever. And this isn't a pregnancy craving - I invented meatrolls when I was 8. Back then, I was using Oscar-Mayer bologna. I've classed it up as I've gotten older though, so today I ate Oscar-Mayer smoked turkey.
Why could my believed meatrolls give you three arms? Well, according to the nurse practitioner we saw last week, any deli meats that are pre-packaged have nitrates, and apparently that could be bad for you. I am supposed to avoid nitrates by only eating deli meat that has been cut for me by the butcher.
I actually did buy some custom-cut turkey, on the way home from that appointment. But I couldn't in good conscious start eating it when there was an unfinished package of Oscar-Mayer, looking sadly out from the crisper drawer of the fridge. So, there you go.
This whole what-to-eat/what-not-to-eat during pregnancy is frustrating. My nurse practitioner darkly warns against nitrates in deli meat, but then goes strangely soft and PC on me by saying I should be "thoughtful" about drinking alcohol, which left me confused. Do we really live in a society that is so out-of-whack that first-time mothers are told never to let nitrates infest their food and bodies, but then are advised to practice "mindful thinking" and "thoughtfulness" about their drinking habits? What a strange combination of vigilance and fear of offending.
(just so you know, Cletus, I may think the nitrate fear is bogus, but my days of alcohol-induced benders are over for the next few months. But once you're out of my body, I'm not going to promise anything).
I find myself calling my friend Jessi a lot to ask her what I can eat. Thus far, she has always given me the exact same response: Use common sense. Can I eat fish four nights a week? "Use common sense. Would you really want to anyways?" How much water should I be drinking? "Use common sense. Drink enough so that you're never really thirsty." Jessi's perspective is that women have been having babies for way longer than nurse practitioners and Google have been freaking us out about what we can and can't eat. There are some exceptions to this rule, but for the most part, if it were really that bad the human race would have died out a long time ago because everyone ate too much nitrate-filled fish.
It's easy for Jessi to say, though, Cletus. She just had her second kid and pregnancy was old-hat to her by the second time around. I don't remember if she was this easy-going with her first one, but I can't help getting freaked out and over-thinking things once in a while. And sometimes, it's in the most unfortunate of situations. Like Friday night.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 came out on DVD on Friday. I announced that morning that we would be spending that night watching both parts 1 and 2 in celebration, and eating pizza. Your dad picked up a pizza from Papa Murphy's and by the time I was home from work, it was in the oven and the house smelled delectable. We turned on the movie, pulled out the pizza - and then your dad suddenlly pointed out the feta cheese that was part of the pizza toppings. "You can't eat this," he flatly told me. "I just realized."
Listen up Cletus: it's one thing for me to longingly look at nitratey hotdogs at the supermarket and have your dad pull me away and tell me I can't eat them. But it's another thing entirely for him to bring home a pizza, cook it, and then place it in front of his pregnant, ravenous wife, and tell her she can't eat it.
Your dad, being a smart man and realizing that swift action must be taken or he might be killed Kalima-style, quickly suggested I call Jessi before any damaging bites of pizza were taken. The phone call was made, and I was told once again to use common sense and eat the pizza as long as it was cooked, followed up by a text from Jessi's husband that said: "For the love of God, eat the goddamn pizza."
So I did, and it was great. No side effects, by the way. Apparently you like feta cheese. And papaya, which I ate every day last week (although I just found out today that that can be a no-no too, apparently. The list goes on and on).
Nine weeks in, and you're already causing inconveniences, Cletus. But I'm sure you'll be worth it.
Love,
Your soon-to-be Mom.
P.S. I know I said I thought you might be a boy. But today in the grocery store we stood in line behind a kid with two broken arms. He told us that he broke them by jumping off the roof of his house on a dare. Please be a girl, Cletus. Girls don't do that kind of crap.
I just finished eating a handful nitrate-soaked deli meatrolls, so if you come out with three arms, that's why. Why would deli meatrolls give you three arms, you ask? Also, what is a meatroll?
A meatroll is the name I've given to one of my favorite snacks. Despite the fact that its name sounds sleazy, it's just delicious. Pick your deli meat (pick your favorite - ham, turkey, salame), squirt some yellow mustard down the middle, roll it up, eat. This is one of the best things ever. And this isn't a pregnancy craving - I invented meatrolls when I was 8. Back then, I was using Oscar-Mayer bologna. I've classed it up as I've gotten older though, so today I ate Oscar-Mayer smoked turkey.
Why could my believed meatrolls give you three arms? Well, according to the nurse practitioner we saw last week, any deli meats that are pre-packaged have nitrates, and apparently that could be bad for you. I am supposed to avoid nitrates by only eating deli meat that has been cut for me by the butcher.
I actually did buy some custom-cut turkey, on the way home from that appointment. But I couldn't in good conscious start eating it when there was an unfinished package of Oscar-Mayer, looking sadly out from the crisper drawer of the fridge. So, there you go.
This whole what-to-eat/what-not-to-eat during pregnancy is frustrating. My nurse practitioner darkly warns against nitrates in deli meat, but then goes strangely soft and PC on me by saying I should be "thoughtful" about drinking alcohol, which left me confused. Do we really live in a society that is so out-of-whack that first-time mothers are told never to let nitrates infest their food and bodies, but then are advised to practice "mindful thinking" and "thoughtfulness" about their drinking habits? What a strange combination of vigilance and fear of offending.
(just so you know, Cletus, I may think the nitrate fear is bogus, but my days of alcohol-induced benders are over for the next few months. But once you're out of my body, I'm not going to promise anything).
I find myself calling my friend Jessi a lot to ask her what I can eat. Thus far, she has always given me the exact same response: Use common sense. Can I eat fish four nights a week? "Use common sense. Would you really want to anyways?" How much water should I be drinking? "Use common sense. Drink enough so that you're never really thirsty." Jessi's perspective is that women have been having babies for way longer than nurse practitioners and Google have been freaking us out about what we can and can't eat. There are some exceptions to this rule, but for the most part, if it were really that bad the human race would have died out a long time ago because everyone ate too much nitrate-filled fish.
It's easy for Jessi to say, though, Cletus. She just had her second kid and pregnancy was old-hat to her by the second time around. I don't remember if she was this easy-going with her first one, but I can't help getting freaked out and over-thinking things once in a while. And sometimes, it's in the most unfortunate of situations. Like Friday night.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 came out on DVD on Friday. I announced that morning that we would be spending that night watching both parts 1 and 2 in celebration, and eating pizza. Your dad picked up a pizza from Papa Murphy's and by the time I was home from work, it was in the oven and the house smelled delectable. We turned on the movie, pulled out the pizza - and then your dad suddenlly pointed out the feta cheese that was part of the pizza toppings. "You can't eat this," he flatly told me. "I just realized."
Listen up Cletus: it's one thing for me to longingly look at nitratey hotdogs at the supermarket and have your dad pull me away and tell me I can't eat them. But it's another thing entirely for him to bring home a pizza, cook it, and then place it in front of his pregnant, ravenous wife, and tell her she can't eat it.
Your dad, being a smart man and realizing that swift action must be taken or he might be killed Kalima-style, quickly suggested I call Jessi before any damaging bites of pizza were taken. The phone call was made, and I was told once again to use common sense and eat the pizza as long as it was cooked, followed up by a text from Jessi's husband that said: "For the love of God, eat the goddamn pizza."
So I did, and it was great. No side effects, by the way. Apparently you like feta cheese. And papaya, which I ate every day last week (although I just found out today that that can be a no-no too, apparently. The list goes on and on).
Nine weeks in, and you're already causing inconveniences, Cletus. But I'm sure you'll be worth it.
Love,
Your soon-to-be Mom.
P.S. I know I said I thought you might be a boy. But today in the grocery store we stood in line behind a kid with two broken arms. He told us that he broke them by jumping off the roof of his house on a dare. Please be a girl, Cletus. Girls don't do that kind of crap.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Only The Best Crappy Dollar-Store Toys
11/6/11
Dear Cletus,
This weekend we told family and friends that you were going to be joining us in seven months. Although most mainstream advice says we should wait until the first trimester is over, your dad and I were having a lot of trouble keeping you a secret (he because of his wild enthusiasm about fatherhood; me because I’m a Sagittarius).
This weekend also happened to be your dad’s Birthday Weekend. Before you correct me and advise that birthdays by definition can only last one day, let me tell you something about your dad: like his own father, who has renamed the month of January his Birthday Month, your dad takes his yearly celebrations very seriously. Festivities in prior years have included a limo ride, ridiculously huge amounts of spaghetti that eventually ended up being thrown into the woods for wildlife to consume, and me doing a drunken interpretation of the Thriller dance.
So given that we were going to be spending the Birthday Weekend with both families (one night with my side, one night with his), your dad and I figured it would be a good time to let everyone know about your pending arrival. The news was of course met with excitement. From your dad’s family, we got tears and screams of excitement (as well as your great-grandma being so surprised that she yelled, “No! Wait – I mean yay!”). From my family, we got smiles, congratulations, and a golf clap (don’t worry, that’s a high achievement in my parents' house).
Today, since all of the birthday celebrations were over, we went over to the house of some close friends to watch Sunday football. Incidentally, these friends just had a baby last week, so this was a good opportunity for me to get my feet wet in dealing with infants.
It’s been a while since I’ve been around any babies, so holding baby Jillian today made me remember just how small everybody starts out. It’s crazy to think that while she is so little at just under seven pounds, you are even tinier since apparently right now you are the size of a blueberry (thank you, What To Expect When You’re Expecting). I have to tell you: from what I've been reading, if you and Jilian were entered into a Baby Cuteness contest right now, she would definitely win. Apparently you have indentations instead of eyes and a nose, and stumps for arms and legs (WTEWYE calls them “buds” but you can't fool me - they're stumps). Since Jillian has actual fingers and toes, this puts her way ahead of you. But before you get discouraged, keep in mind you have seven more months to cook. Get cracking on some fingers and a couple dimples, and you should be well on your way to winning some creepy baby beauty pageants someday.
You’re going to get to know Jillian and her older sister Lainie really well, by the way, because her mom and I are BFFs. Not only are going to going to become very familiar with the whole family, you are going to become acutely aware that Jillian's mom, Jessi, is ten times the mom that you have. I’m not trying to solicit sympathy, Cletus – I’m just stating a fact. Jessi does things that I mock to her face but secretly envy, because they just seem so maternal, and she even seems to enjoy doing them. Like making cookies on weekends just because, and putting together goody bags for Lainie's first-grade class at school for her birthday. For the life of me, I can’t understand how anyone would want to do either of these things. It's not just that, either. There are so many other things that seem to come with the parenting territory that just don't sound fun to me, including getting up early on Saturdays in the fall to shiver on the sidelines of soccer games, hosting playdates with a bunch of other people’s kids that you don’t really care about, and attending graduation ceremonies for preschoolers.
You might have figured this out already, Cletus, but I wasn't one of those people who dreamed of having kids when I was in elementary school, and I was never someone who just knew she wanted to have babies someday. When your dad and I drove to dinner on our one-year wedding anniversary, he brought up the idea of having kids sometime soon; in response, I got so overwhelmed that I cried and ruined my eye makeup. The responsibility of taking care of another life seemed so huge that I didn't know if I was up for the challenge. I know a lot of amazing moms, and I see what kind of selfless devotion they give to their kids - could I do the same thing? I wasn't sure, at first. It took a few months of pondering, obsessing, and ultimately deciding that yes, I could do it, for me to get comfortable with the idea of having you. Hopefully I don't screw you up too badly.
Why am I telling you all of this? Call it full disclosure. Nobody's perfect, and you should probably realize that your mom has a lot of flaws. But before you decide to completely disown me, keep in mind that once I saw that positive pregnancy test and after the panic attack had subsided, I got excited. Really excited. So excited, in fact, that I started to think that maybe I could understand why so many parents do all that stuff that doesn't seem so fun at first. If you are one of the kids out on the soccer field, I'm pretty sure I would attend your games (flask in hand if it's chilly out). I could see myself not only making you birthday goody bags, but getting weirdly competive about it (your bags must have only the best crappy dollar-store toys!). I could probably even tolerate attending a graduation ceremony someday, when you and some classmates in tissue-paper caps and gowns stand in front of a sea of parents. If it’s for you, I’m at least 80% sure I would do it. And as you walk across the stage, picking your nose as you transform from a preschooler into a kindergartener, I’ll even give you a golf clap.
Love,
Your soon-to-be Mom
Dear Cletus,
This weekend we told family and friends that you were going to be joining us in seven months. Although most mainstream advice says we should wait until the first trimester is over, your dad and I were having a lot of trouble keeping you a secret (he because of his wild enthusiasm about fatherhood; me because I’m a Sagittarius).
This weekend also happened to be your dad’s Birthday Weekend. Before you correct me and advise that birthdays by definition can only last one day, let me tell you something about your dad: like his own father, who has renamed the month of January his Birthday Month, your dad takes his yearly celebrations very seriously. Festivities in prior years have included a limo ride, ridiculously huge amounts of spaghetti that eventually ended up being thrown into the woods for wildlife to consume, and me doing a drunken interpretation of the Thriller dance.
So given that we were going to be spending the Birthday Weekend with both families (one night with my side, one night with his), your dad and I figured it would be a good time to let everyone know about your pending arrival. The news was of course met with excitement. From your dad’s family, we got tears and screams of excitement (as well as your great-grandma being so surprised that she yelled, “No! Wait – I mean yay!”). From my family, we got smiles, congratulations, and a golf clap (don’t worry, that’s a high achievement in my parents' house).
Today, since all of the birthday celebrations were over, we went over to the house of some close friends to watch Sunday football. Incidentally, these friends just had a baby last week, so this was a good opportunity for me to get my feet wet in dealing with infants.
It’s been a while since I’ve been around any babies, so holding baby Jillian today made me remember just how small everybody starts out. It’s crazy to think that while she is so little at just under seven pounds, you are even tinier since apparently right now you are the size of a blueberry (thank you, What To Expect When You’re Expecting). I have to tell you: from what I've been reading, if you and Jilian were entered into a Baby Cuteness contest right now, she would definitely win. Apparently you have indentations instead of eyes and a nose, and stumps for arms and legs (WTEWYE calls them “buds” but you can't fool me - they're stumps). Since Jillian has actual fingers and toes, this puts her way ahead of you. But before you get discouraged, keep in mind you have seven more months to cook. Get cracking on some fingers and a couple dimples, and you should be well on your way to winning some creepy baby beauty pageants someday.
You’re going to get to know Jillian and her older sister Lainie really well, by the way, because her mom and I are BFFs. Not only are going to going to become very familiar with the whole family, you are going to become acutely aware that Jillian's mom, Jessi, is ten times the mom that you have. I’m not trying to solicit sympathy, Cletus – I’m just stating a fact. Jessi does things that I mock to her face but secretly envy, because they just seem so maternal, and she even seems to enjoy doing them. Like making cookies on weekends just because, and putting together goody bags for Lainie's first-grade class at school for her birthday. For the life of me, I can’t understand how anyone would want to do either of these things. It's not just that, either. There are so many other things that seem to come with the parenting territory that just don't sound fun to me, including getting up early on Saturdays in the fall to shiver on the sidelines of soccer games, hosting playdates with a bunch of other people’s kids that you don’t really care about, and attending graduation ceremonies for preschoolers.
You might have figured this out already, Cletus, but I wasn't one of those people who dreamed of having kids when I was in elementary school, and I was never someone who just knew she wanted to have babies someday. When your dad and I drove to dinner on our one-year wedding anniversary, he brought up the idea of having kids sometime soon; in response, I got so overwhelmed that I cried and ruined my eye makeup. The responsibility of taking care of another life seemed so huge that I didn't know if I was up for the challenge. I know a lot of amazing moms, and I see what kind of selfless devotion they give to their kids - could I do the same thing? I wasn't sure, at first. It took a few months of pondering, obsessing, and ultimately deciding that yes, I could do it, for me to get comfortable with the idea of having you. Hopefully I don't screw you up too badly.
Why am I telling you all of this? Call it full disclosure. Nobody's perfect, and you should probably realize that your mom has a lot of flaws. But before you decide to completely disown me, keep in mind that once I saw that positive pregnancy test and after the panic attack had subsided, I got excited. Really excited. So excited, in fact, that I started to think that maybe I could understand why so many parents do all that stuff that doesn't seem so fun at first. If you are one of the kids out on the soccer field, I'm pretty sure I would attend your games (flask in hand if it's chilly out). I could see myself not only making you birthday goody bags, but getting weirdly competive about it (your bags must have only the best crappy dollar-store toys!). I could probably even tolerate attending a graduation ceremony someday, when you and some classmates in tissue-paper caps and gowns stand in front of a sea of parents. If it’s for you, I’m at least 80% sure I would do it. And as you walk across the stage, picking your nose as you transform from a preschooler into a kindergartener, I’ll even give you a golf clap.
Love,
Your soon-to-be Mom
Can I Play Hip-Hop to My Stomach To Make Sure My Child Has A Sense of Rhythm?
10/29/11
Dear Cletus,
First things first: Cletus is not going to be your actual name. But when we found out that I was pregnant, your dad and I weren’t sure what to call you, since we don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl. “The Kid” sounds like a movie title, and cute names like “Peanut” and “Bun” (as in, in the oven) have already been used by friends. We decided on Cletus because it rhymes with fetus. You can start there when you begin your very first therapy session someday.
Despite our questionable choice in pre-gender baby names, your dad and I are excited about you. I might as well tell you now, though: I don’t “love” you yet. I put it in quotes, because I’m referring to “love” in that way that all new mothers describe the emotion when they see their newborn babies for the first time. That “I-loved-with-a-part-of-my-soul-that-I-never-knew-existed” thing. I don’t feel that yet. I told your dad this, and he immediately said that he will use this to his advantage when you are a teenager and trying to decide which of us you want to rebel against more. I admit – it’s a clear tactical advantage in that upcoming adolescent battle. But let me tell you this: it’s not that I’m not happy to be having you, because I am. But I haven’t met you yet. Have you ever loved anyone you haven’t met? Probably not, unless it’s Drew Barrymore (who doesn’t love her?). I’m looking forward to that crazy love-beyond-all-loves that is supposed to happen when I meet you. But until then, I’m just excited to meet you, and a little irritated that you are already causing me back pain at 7 weeks gestation.
Not too many people know about you yet, Cletus. This is because we are going to tell our families next week. You will find that you are being born into a rather intimidating family, since on your dad’s side, we have a lot of wine-drinking, hard-partying Irish, and on my side we have a lot of wine-drinking, bookish white people of undetermined-but-probably-Western-European ancestry. Either way, you are being born into a big extended family that drinks a lot of wine. Tip: not that you’ll need help ingratiating yourself into the family, but it’d be great if you learned to pour wine once you can toddle around. Everyone will think it’s cute, and it will save Mommy a trip to the kitchen.
So anyways, we’re seven weeks into this little adventure and so far, so good. You aren’t causing me too many symptoms yet (aside from the aforementioned back pain), and I’m trying not to overthink the huge changes that are going to start soon with our lives, so that I don’t have any type-A freakouts (like the one I had when your dad proposed to me, and that other one the first time your dad broached having kids. But those are stories for another day, and another future therapy session). I have plans to repaint and decorate our back bedroom, which will become your room. I have also flipped through the pregnancy Bible, What To Expect When You're Expecting. But that’s about it, in terms of my pregnancy activities so far. I did spend about one week obsessively Googling everything pregnancy-related (and I do mean everything: “Is having cramps during early pregnancy normal”; “Does lack of nausea mean imminent miscarriage”; “Can I play hip-hop to my stomach to make sure my child has a sense of rhythm”). But then I was told by a nurse practitioner to stop unless I wanted to drive myself crazy, so I am pretty much internet-free on the pregnancy thing. So, if I seem a little flustered and inept when you first meet me, that’s probably why. But bear with me; I do improve upon further acquaintance.
I’m not sure what else to say at this point. I have a weird and irrational feeling that you might be a boy, but if you're a girl, that would be fun too. I want you to meet your cousins – they will be seven and nine when you are born, but they be very excited to meet you. I am also looking forward to you meeting our pets (Oni the Cat, who pees on furniture periodically; Molly, the best dog we will ever own, she’s that great; and Bristow the Pug, also known as the DFP. This stands for Determined Fat Pug, or Dumb F*cking Pug, depending on whether he has squeezed out of his kennel or pooed in the house again).
I want to bring pictures of you to decorate my desk at work, and have conversations with friends about your first bowel movement which no one else will find interesting but me. I can’t wait for you to play catch with your dad in the backyard (which you will do no matter what your gender – you don’t know this yet, but your dad is a baseball fanatic and if you don’t at least feign interest, he will disown you). I’m also particularly looking forward to being your parent down the road when you’re not just a baby, but a full-fledged kid. If you’re anything like your dad and me, I have a feeling that there will be a parent-teacher conference someday because you made a “that’s what she said” joke in class. I’m telling you this now: I will have to look angry in front of the teacher, but I will be laughing on the inside.
I’m looking forward to meeting you, Cletus.
Dear Cletus,
First things first: Cletus is not going to be your actual name. But when we found out that I was pregnant, your dad and I weren’t sure what to call you, since we don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl. “The Kid” sounds like a movie title, and cute names like “Peanut” and “Bun” (as in, in the oven) have already been used by friends. We decided on Cletus because it rhymes with fetus. You can start there when you begin your very first therapy session someday.
Despite our questionable choice in pre-gender baby names, your dad and I are excited about you. I might as well tell you now, though: I don’t “love” you yet. I put it in quotes, because I’m referring to “love” in that way that all new mothers describe the emotion when they see their newborn babies for the first time. That “I-loved-with-a-part-of-my-soul-that-I-never-knew-existed” thing. I don’t feel that yet. I told your dad this, and he immediately said that he will use this to his advantage when you are a teenager and trying to decide which of us you want to rebel against more. I admit – it’s a clear tactical advantage in that upcoming adolescent battle. But let me tell you this: it’s not that I’m not happy to be having you, because I am. But I haven’t met you yet. Have you ever loved anyone you haven’t met? Probably not, unless it’s Drew Barrymore (who doesn’t love her?). I’m looking forward to that crazy love-beyond-all-loves that is supposed to happen when I meet you. But until then, I’m just excited to meet you, and a little irritated that you are already causing me back pain at 7 weeks gestation.
Not too many people know about you yet, Cletus. This is because we are going to tell our families next week. You will find that you are being born into a rather intimidating family, since on your dad’s side, we have a lot of wine-drinking, hard-partying Irish, and on my side we have a lot of wine-drinking, bookish white people of undetermined-but-probably-Western-European ancestry. Either way, you are being born into a big extended family that drinks a lot of wine. Tip: not that you’ll need help ingratiating yourself into the family, but it’d be great if you learned to pour wine once you can toddle around. Everyone will think it’s cute, and it will save Mommy a trip to the kitchen.
So anyways, we’re seven weeks into this little adventure and so far, so good. You aren’t causing me too many symptoms yet (aside from the aforementioned back pain), and I’m trying not to overthink the huge changes that are going to start soon with our lives, so that I don’t have any type-A freakouts (like the one I had when your dad proposed to me, and that other one the first time your dad broached having kids. But those are stories for another day, and another future therapy session). I have plans to repaint and decorate our back bedroom, which will become your room. I have also flipped through the pregnancy Bible, What To Expect When You're Expecting. But that’s about it, in terms of my pregnancy activities so far. I did spend about one week obsessively Googling everything pregnancy-related (and I do mean everything: “Is having cramps during early pregnancy normal”; “Does lack of nausea mean imminent miscarriage”; “Can I play hip-hop to my stomach to make sure my child has a sense of rhythm”). But then I was told by a nurse practitioner to stop unless I wanted to drive myself crazy, so I am pretty much internet-free on the pregnancy thing. So, if I seem a little flustered and inept when you first meet me, that’s probably why. But bear with me; I do improve upon further acquaintance.
I’m not sure what else to say at this point. I have a weird and irrational feeling that you might be a boy, but if you're a girl, that would be fun too. I want you to meet your cousins – they will be seven and nine when you are born, but they be very excited to meet you. I am also looking forward to you meeting our pets (Oni the Cat, who pees on furniture periodically; Molly, the best dog we will ever own, she’s that great; and Bristow the Pug, also known as the DFP. This stands for Determined Fat Pug, or Dumb F*cking Pug, depending on whether he has squeezed out of his kennel or pooed in the house again).
I want to bring pictures of you to decorate my desk at work, and have conversations with friends about your first bowel movement which no one else will find interesting but me. I can’t wait for you to play catch with your dad in the backyard (which you will do no matter what your gender – you don’t know this yet, but your dad is a baseball fanatic and if you don’t at least feign interest, he will disown you). I’m also particularly looking forward to being your parent down the road when you’re not just a baby, but a full-fledged kid. If you’re anything like your dad and me, I have a feeling that there will be a parent-teacher conference someday because you made a “that’s what she said” joke in class. I’m telling you this now: I will have to look angry in front of the teacher, but I will be laughing on the inside.
I’m looking forward to meeting you, Cletus.
Your soon-to-be Mom
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