Hi.  I really am sorry about the impersonal greeting, but it’s the best I’ve got.  That’s how I see you right now. 

No.  Don’t be frightened I’ll never bond with you, or love you, or feed you.  It’s just the way I am at this stage.  At least I’ve come far enough since Number 1, that I know I will love you.  When we meet.  And really, quite intantaneously.   When your big brother was only 7 months in the making, I sat in my parents’ driveway bawling that I wouldn’t love him.  What if I don’t even like him?  Silly me.  He was really pretty cool when we met.  You will be too.

But right now, this is how it goes down.  You are the size of a butterbean.  Bigger than a lima, smaller than a snow pea.  You have hands, feet, eyes, a brain, several significant neurological underpinnings, and see-through skin.  Cool.   I’m sure you’re lovely.  But I can’t really see you.  But boy, do I feel you.

You, in your fetal bliss, make me gag, yarf, choke and generally unable to eat most nutritional foods.  I am exhausted.  I just pretty much feel like crap.  All the time.  I can’t sleep with your father.  His breath smells funky.  His light snoring is grating to my very soul.  I can’t go to sleep easily, at all, as a matter of fact.  I’ve been taking Unisom (hope you’re OK in there) to try to stay sane.  And some various and sundry other supposed to be OK drugs to stay hydrated and minimally nourished.   The dog’s very presence irritates me, something I can only attribute to you, as before, I thought he was pretty neato (wait, got to kick him off my feet).

I know you will be worth every single hurl and sleepless moment.  I really really do.  But right now, I just have faith for that.  Not the real deep down lovey-baby’s coming, aaaawwwww, isn’t that precious sort of anticipation.  It’s survival, dear.  You and me, and your Dad, and siblings.  We’re just all hanging on till the end, when we get to meet you and say, whew.  Glad that part’s over.  Now let’s get on with life.  Life with you.   Your sister even says things like Good for you, Mommy, when I shower.  That’s how desperate things get.  But for you, for you, we can deal.

I see those other women, rubbing their bellies, cooing to unborn ears.  It’s just not me.  Never has been.  In fact, I don’t even really like children.  Again, no worries here.  I like my children.  I’m just not a kid person, in general.  Which is awkward when you have almost 4 of your own, because at church, and other places like that, people just assume you can’t wait to sign up for nursery duty, or the dreaded Children’s Ministry, or be the room mom.  I’m like, I have my children, why do I need to mess with yours?  In fact, the more I have, the less I want to do with yours.  Why is this so difficult to understand?

I imagine you are a girl.  But hey, if there’s a bity penis in there (no offense, it just has to be, you’re the size of a cashew), we’ll be tickled blue.  It’s just that I’ve always thought if we had four, it’d be boy-girl-boy-girl, and well, I’ve been right 3 times.  So I’m just going to think girl now, and switch gears as necessary.  Probably at the 20 week U/S.  

Thinking of names.  Don’t actually want to publish.  Do that, and you open up yourself for everyone’s and their Aunt Faye’s assivice on just what that particular name will or won’t do to you.  And hey, your big brother, the youngest one, is names after a color that most people aren’t, so we’re bound to find something many think is odd.  Got one that could swing boy or girl.  We’ll see.  

Every body that knows us is pretty jazzed you’re on the way.  You oldest 2 siblings cried when we first told them.  Don’t take offense, they didn’t mean it personally.  It just took them by surprise, and they’ve seen one too many Discovery Baby shows with me.  They were afraid for my safety and well being.  And to be honest, for my sanity and their ranking in the family.  It’ll be all OK when they meet you, too.  No sweat.  They are fantastic kids with big hearts and a terrific sense of family.  You’ll be rotten.  Just rotten.  Probably won’t learn the meaning of no till you’re married.   

Well, 4, these are the things that come to mind tonight.  I figure I should think towards your actual arrival some, as we are nearing the end of our first 3 months together.  It’s tough for me to picture.  After all these times, 3 other children and pregnancies, I still find it hard to comprehend all this means another little person.  And you, my dear, are my ticket to the tummy tuck and boob job I’ve been hankering for for years.  I told your Dad, 4 kids?  F-O-U-R?  Then you owe me, bud.  Done.  But really, I’d do it without the carrot at the end of this long stick.  I think.  No, I would.  Promise.

I kind of look forward to being able to feel you move around.  Always makes it seem more "real".  Kind of soothing, knowing things seem OK in there.  Why there can’t be a window I’ll never know.  Also puts more specificity on the why of all the discomfort.  But for now, I’ll just chill knowing how it always goes down for me and one of my own.  We’ll get it in time.  You won’t feel less, or unloved, just because right now you seem somewhat an annoyance.  It’s just part of the deal.  And each of your siblings will tell you I said the same about them.  Yet they are so awesome to me, so incredibly yummy, I could muster up the gumption to go in again.  

It’s going to be good.  Just you wait and see.  And that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.  Because by now, I know it to be true.

What to say here?  Love?  Fondly?  Over and out?  Maybe, see you soon,

Mom