Sunday, January 07, 2007


Dear baby,

What is with the recent fixation with my bladder? You seem to take particular pleasure in standing on top of it and perhaps testing it for buoyancy by kicking it - repeatedly - with those cute little feet of yours. Which I saw, by the way. We almost didn't get to have the 4-D ultrasound, first because your daddy and I were cagey about getting an early glimpse, as if that would be like opening a Christmas present before Christmas morning. But we decided to go ahead and take a peek. And when we finally got to our appointment, they made us wait an hour and a half. We were going to leave, but they plied me with peanut butter crakcers - which you really seem to dig, by the way - and finally we were in.

And there you were. Not the grain of rice, not the rockabilly baby of 11 week old ultrasounds or the skeletor baby of week 20, but a real baby. With your father's nose. We don't think you were really into the whole process, because you dedided to kick the tar out of me for its duration. The woman running the ultrasound said that in the duration of her career, she had never been kicked so much by a baby. Look at that. You've already garnered your first accolade, and you're not even out of the womb! You made your father very proud.

So we've entered the home stretch, you and I. We picked out your crib yesterday and selected the paint for the nursery. Pretty soon the room's gonna be done, my showers will have come and gone, and still we wait.

I'm not very good at waiting. But I have a feeling you're worth it. Except when you do that kicking, pummelling thing with my bladder. Then not so much.

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