Hi. This is Mom.
The slacker who hasn't written to you in a while. Sorry.
To be honest, I'm starting to feel that last-two-weeks fatigue: you know, when there are no more milestones left; and we've celebrated your eyelashes and your elbows and kicks and hiccups and BHCs and 4D scan; and the room's done and bags packed; and you could arrive any minute, but you don't; and there are silly things to do that I don't feel like doing; and the waiting's getting boring... You know...
So, we're there. All that's left is you. We can't wait.
Seriously.
One of the things I've found strange about being pregnant is that everyone else seems so very excited about the baby's arrival, along the lines of, 'Yes, labour will suck but at the end of it, I get to be a mom.'
Hmmm, me not so much. Don't get me wrong: I'm super-excited to meet you and can't wait to have you in our life, and I'm sure I'll be fairly good at the mothering thing (eventually), but I'm not frothing at the gills to be that being they call 'a mom'. I'm just eager to meet you. To have you. To learn to love you.
And for that part, I can't wait. So, where are you? :)
The body's clever. By the end of nine months and two weeks and a bit, everything is so uncomfortable and I'm so large and ungainly (even the-usually-very-complimentary Dad has recently used the beached whale / harpoon / Greenpeace analogy) that - despite my wide array of anxieties, fears and worries - I'm thinking you'll be better out than in. I'm looking forward to being un-pregnant, and to being me again.
Except, this time, I'll be me plus you. A whole different me. Forever changed. And, hopefully, better.
Und now, ve vait.
May you inherit my chronic un-slackerishness and Dad's chronic chilledness, in equal parts.
Love you.
Mom x
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