Expecting | Dear Baby

Capt. Woodrow Call

Dear Baby,

Spiders are making webs in bathroom sinks and across tall grass.  The tom cats spread out on long bellies and backs on the deck.  (I fill their water bowls twice daily.)  We're surprised by rain, but my poor potted patchouli is barely holding on.  I clumsily peel kiwis and wait for you.

It's difficult to concentrate on reading.  It's difficult to get dressed in the morning, and difficult to motivate myself to stand in front of a camera and mark these last (I hope) days of carrying you inside me--not because my belly does not make me proud, but because it is awfully heavy, or you in it are awfully heavy.  Four pounds gained in one week according to the scale at the midwives', and it's all you, bub.  Though, as enormous as I feel, strangers still comment on how "small" I look, completely flummoxed that I'm due to birth you on July 31st, and not some later month.  

Two days until our due date, but then, those dates are somewhat arbitrary.  Your cousin Ella was born five days early; your dear mama here was born a week late.  But still, each morning I say to your papa, enthusiastically, hopefully, "maybe I'll go into labor today!"  Well, every morning but this specific one, when your father left for work before the sun rose and I only managed to mumble sleepily, "I love you. Drink lots of water today," as he kissed my cheek goodbye.  

As much as I try to respect your time, baby love, I am so eager to see you.  We all are.  Your great-grandma called the day of my last midwife appointment, Friday, to ask, "Any news!?", thinking perhaps I may be dilated and ready.  Your grandma Sandra left a bag full of cloth diapers and other odds and ends on the porch yesterday afternoon while we were out.  I've been surprised by a few Braxton Hicks contractions, but nothing substantial.  I'm considering taking up mall walking if you don't make your debut in the next few days.  I'll try my damnedest to just walk you right out of me, but in the air conditioning and while window shopping for clothes that I can neither fit into nor afford at the moment--all those neon colors are still en vogue, and I do love them so.

In short, here I am, willing you to please come soon, baby.  And, while I'm at it, please stop jamming that foot into my ribs.

I love you, and I want you here, on the outside, where I can kiss your little face and hands and feet freely and hold you to my skin the way I keep dreaming of holding you.

Mama

  

Thorn Rex