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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