Ever since I found out I was pregnant with you, I’ve wanted to take a picture of a bun actually baking in an oven. So, when I talk to you in my head, I usually call you “Bun.” I also call you “it” a lot, but not because I don’t love you—-mostly because I don’t know what you are (boy or girl) and we aren’t going to find out until you make your appearance 2.5 months from now.
I can’t believe I’m 2/3 through this pregnancy. Seems like it was five seconds ago that I peed on a stick and found out (on tax day, mind you). I always expected it to happen the way it does in movies/t.v. I’d pee on a stick and then wait for 2 minutes to find out. I was preparing myself for those long, torturous minutes. But alas, I peed and about 10 seconds later, I had my answer. So I did it again to make sure, and again, had my answer.
I remember standing behind the door for a few minutes, not sure if I knew how to tell Zach. I practiced in my head, “I’m pregnant,” but the words were so foreign, so strange, I didn’t know how to say it. So instead, I just walked out and started laughing—I think I said something like, “well, your sperm definitely works!” because your mom is classy like that.
I wonder often if I will be a good mother to you. I will try, bun, that’s a promise. But I wonder if I will be nurturing enough for you, strong enough for you, giving enough for you. I can be emotionally withholding at times and I worry about that as a mother. I wonder if having you will instantly make me grow up and I’ll stop watching Gossip Girl and TMZ and Keeping up with the Kardashians—-if I’ll stop leaving dishes in the sink or delaying scrubbing the bathtub until it becomes a health hazard. I wonder if I will be a person you admire (at least someday) or if I’ll be the one you blame the majority of your problems on.
I’m not even sure being pregnant with you has become a reality to me yet. I am nearing the finish line and it’s still difficult for me to say out loud, “I’m pregnant.” I guess that’s probably because I assume most people think I am still a teenager. I’ve watched my sisters get pregnant and have children but they were always older. They were the “big girls” and I was always a “little girl”. So accepting the reality that I am now an adult is difficult even though I’ve been doing adult-like things for about 5 years now. I still sometimes feel like when I put my work clothes on in the morning, I’m playing dress up.
I guess the scary thing about becoming a mother is that we don’t know what kind of mother we’ll be until it’s too late to really do anything about it. I think back to my babysitting experiences, for example. I hated babysitting and I was terrible at it. Really, really terrible. I’m sure I was never the babysitter kids requested and I was usually trying to make up excuses of why I wasn’t available to babysit. Everyone says it’s different with your own kids (and when you’re an adult)—I have my fingers crossed on that one and you should too.
I can tell you that I know I love you already. I also know you are going to annoy me sometimes once you’re here, but I promise I will love you all the time. I promise I will do my best to keep you safe. I won’t promise to keep you clothed all the time because I think it’s good for babies to run around in just diapers—-enjoy that freedom while you can—-but I will promise never to post naked pictures of you on facebook. I promise I will try to raise you in a way that will make you a normal, well-adjusted, functioning adult. You’ll thank me for that one someday if I can achieve it. If I push you, it’s because I was raised by my parents—-two people who so clearly saw the merit of criticizing their children and then hugging them tightly after.
I’ll try to make some days extra special for you. Your birthday, obviously. I believe in breakfast in bed, streamers, balloons, special dinner. Not many presents, but definitely plenty of ceremony. Christmas too. Duh. There will be so much Christmas you can barely stand it. hot chocolate each morning starting 12 days before Christmas. stockings. trips to see the terrifying Santa in the mall. baking. crafts. pajamas all day every day during Christmas break. And of course I’ll force you into Halloween costumes I think would be hilarious on a child (old man/woman baby, sumo wrestler, hot dog, etc.) I will don my annual witch costume which will grow increasingly more disturbing as your resistance to fear increases.
But more than the special days and all the fun those will be, I promise I’ll be there for you on all the normal days. Because even though the special days are important, the regular days are the most important. I think I understand that now and I hope it’s a realization I can have every day with you.
So, I promise to push you too hard sometimes and make you do things you don’t want to do. I promise to irritate you. I promise to be honest with you, even if sometimes you don’t like what I say. I promise there will be terrible days—days that you and I just don’t agree on anything—days when we can hardly stand to speak to each other. I promise we will get through those days.
Most of all, I promise to love you with all my heart now and always.
Love,
Mama
