You are alive.
You make sure I know this, turning, kicking, pushing and pulling to get my attention. Every time you move, I am reminded just how alive you are. That we are alive together for this precious period of time, and that at some point, you will be ready to take on the world, and then you will be your own stunning person.
I talk to you all the time now, like I am a little bit crazy. I apologize to you when I sneeze, hoping it didn't wake you from a perfect slumber. I try to purr to you at bedtime, since you always seem to be up and ready for fun right as I rest my head on the pillow. I try reasoning with you, bargaining, explaining to you that it is bedtime, and we are all going to sleep, the three of us in one bed. I sing "Goodnight My Someone," wishing that sweet dreams be yours, dear, if dreams there be.
I have given you a personality, which is surprisingly feisty. For some reason, I imagine your kicks are messages for me to slow down, take notice, like you are tapping from the inside to get my attention, stomping your feet so I take notice, and I find myself saying, "Alright, alright... you're right, I know. I'm sorry." I like that you are feisty, not afraid to speak up when it's important, even as tiny as you are.
I danced at a wedding the other night, to Michael Jackson. I danced like I wasn't six months pregnant, in four-inch heels, not stopping till I got enough. I bet that was as fun for you as it was for me.
You know all those times you hear me laughing? That's because of your dad. He makes me laugh, all the time, and he'll make you laugh soon, too.
Your dad loves you an awful lot. You're lucky you got him as a dad. He's ordered you about a thousand books already, all the best ones, and he stayed up late after work painting your new room. He talks about you all the time, making plans. Today he was making plans for a sandbox, imagining you out there with your buckets and rakes, inventing your own games and building sand cities. He even started recording classic cartoons, which he claims is "research" for your impending arrival, but I think he just wants an excuse to watch Pink Panther.
It occurred to me yesterday that you will be born in 2010. It's like you're a futuristic baby! It's totally cool. And no, we still don't have jetpacks.
I know. I know. I'm eating way too much Mexican food. I can't help it. I hope you like spicy food as much as I do.
We have four more months to go, you and I, before you decide you are ready to see this world for yourself. I'm having the best time with you. I mean it. I hope you're comfortable, and feel safe and protected and loved. I get these waves of chills still -- goosebumps of happiness. I'm certain you must feel that, too.
I hope you feel how happy we are.
You know how I know I love you? Because I've gained 30 pounds, I can't tie my shoes, my back hurts, I can't sleep, I can't eat sushi or drink wine and I haven't had a bite of brie cheese or a cup of real coffee in six months, and yet I am quite possibly the happiest person on the planet.
That must be love.
And just as I typed that, you kicked me. I guess you love me too.