Dear Future Baby

Dear Future Baby,

(Sorry about the weirdo nickname. That is the unfortunate plight of the second child—you can't just be "baby," for how would anyone know whether I was talking about you or about your big brother? Some people say he's hardly a baby anymore, but you'll never convince me of this.)

It is only a few short days until we find out more about you. We'll find out about how big you are, how fast your heart is beating, whether you are as healthy as can be, and perhaps the most widely anticipated news of all, whether you are a boy or a girl. It's strange, this feeling of just a short time left of wonder and mystery and dreaming. As of now, I can imagine you as a little girl, dressed in an adorable little sundress and matching shoes. And I can just as easily imagine you as my sweet little boy, wearing the silly sports-themed clothing that all boys seemed destined for. Both are wonderful and amazing possibilities. But in just a few days, only one of them will continue to be a possibility.

In a way, that makes me a little sad. Believe me, I cannot WAIT to find out more about you. Knowing who you are and imagining our life as a family of four will be amazing, and it will help me prepare to meet you. But also, my baby girl or baby boy will be gone, if that makes any sense at all. I wonder if I am the only one feeling this way. I know there is no real loss here, only gain. But since you are probably-very-likely-pretty-definitely our last baby, I am about to find out whether I will never have a baby girl to smooch on or whether I will never again have a tiny baby boy to cuddle.

Enough of that sad part though. It is YOU I want to meet! Will you look like Milo? Will you look like Daddy, with dark hair and hazel eyes? Or will it take months and months before we can even tell what color your hair actually is? Or maybe you'll come out with a full head of hair and put Milo's current amount of hair to shame. Will you remind Daddy and me every day of Milo, or will you wow us with how totally unlike him you are, even though you have practically the same DNA? I'm sorry for the inevitable comparisons to your brother. I promise you, there will be no comparing the way I feel about you, because how can you measure a love that is bigger than anything I ever dreamed my heart could feel?

You've been rolling and kicking and punching me for a week or so now. I'm sure that as the weeks go on, I'll start to notice a pattern to your movements—when you sleep and when you are awake, which foods I eat make you want to dance, how well you tolerate a little caffeine. Maybe by that time Daddy and I will have chosen a name for you so I can say, "Future Baby, please quit kicking me! I'm trying to sleep!" And then I'll remind myself that being kicked from inside is probably better than being smacked in the face by a toddler, because at least this way I don't have to figure out how to discipline you.

But I digress. Point is, we still have lots of time to get to know each other before we ever look one another in the eye. I'm truly so excited to meet you. You are already such a wonderful part of our family.

See you next week.
Love,
Mommy

A Mother's Day Letter

Dear Milo,

This Sunday will be our second Mother’s Day together. Last year you were awfully tiny on Mother’s Day—only seven weeks old. And as it turned out, you pretty much cried the entire day. (Was it because we dressed you in your sweater vest? Sorry about that. But you should know that as your mother, I cannot help myself.) So even with the wonderful breakfast your daddy made for me and the amazing necklace (which I wear very frequently), all that crying you did really put a damper on the day.

This year is going to be a lot different—in ways both good and bad. The good? You are much older, and tend to do less crying. And when you do cry, we can usually fix it with snuggles or food. But the bad—I will not be spending the first two-thirds of the day with you. We are going to a wedding in another town, and you will be spending the night with Grandma Susan and Grandpa Russ. (Remember to wish Grandma a happy mother’s day!)

I can’t tell you how bummed I was when I realized that we’d be driving back to town on Mother’s Day. I was so looking forward to playing with you and spending some fun time together. I thought maybe we’d go to the park or go get frozen yogurt or something. I know you don’t really know that it is a special day, so we will just have to do those things some other time. But I’ll be wishing I was with you.

You are so very special to me. I’m so glad I am your mama. You are more fun than I ever could have imagined. I love your laugh and the way you bounce in your seat. I love tickling your chubby baby thighs and the way you tried to slip me the tongue when I kissed you. I’ve never laughed so hard. I even love the way you take partially chewed-up food out of your mouth and offer it to me. It’s very generous of you.

When you were still growing inside my belly, people would tell me that they couldn’t really describe what it was like to have a kid. You just had to experience it. And, well. They were right. How can you explain the way you love a person who has peed on your face (and his own), vomited in your hair, pooped in your arms, and screamed in your ear? Why do you love a person who breaks your heart when you have to leave him with someone else for a few hours, then turns around and breaks your heart again when you return and he doesn’t want to go to you? There’s simply no explaining it.

Milo, there is nothing you could ever do that would make me love you less. I hope you know that. Thanks for all your hugs and smooches. You’re amazing.

Love,
Mama

You've Got Mail

Dear Everyone,

Please quit telling me that you don’t think I look pregnant. Not only are you insulting me, but you are bringing out my pregnancy neuroses and making me question whether or not my baby is growing at an appropriate pace.

Let’s address point number one. I mean really. Do you honestly think I have just always had this gut? Am I fatter in your eyes than I thought? I suppose you think you’re being complimentary and all, telling me you don’t think my body has changed or that I haven’t gained much weight. But it’s not a compliment. And at this semi-early stage, I WANT to look pregnant. I want people to know that something is going on in there and that my body is working hard, dammit. I’m SUPPOSED to gain weight, and if I’m not, it means SOMETHING IS WRONG.

Which brings me to point number two. Why oh why am I letting you make me feel so insecure? I’ve heard the heartbeat; I’ve felt the little movements. Logically I know that everything is going fine. But when you ask me how far along I am, then respond with a shocked “You’re not nearly big enough for x weeks!” emotion takes over. You make me want to run home and grab the Doppler, because maybe the baby ISN’T growing the way he/she is supposed to. And I need to check the heartbeat right this minute to be sure it’s still beating away.

So I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from commenting on my size. I’m not too small, and I’m not too big. Repeat this to yourself and next time you see me, simply say, “You look great!” Even if you wholeheartedly disagree. I don’t care. Lie to me.

Sincerely,
Megan

Oh, Deer

Dear Bambi,

Please quit eating my tulips. I spent way too much time in the hot sun last fall digging through the hard-as-a-rock dirt to plant those lovelies, and before they even bloomed, you decided they might make a tasty snack. Well, I’ve had it. Those stems look pretty lame without the petals.

You used to charm me when I saw you eating from the neighbor’s birdfeeder. I watched, awestruck, as you bounded gracefully through the neighborhood. But now? Now you are more annoying than the magazine-selling guys who show up at our doorstep every few months. In fact, you are worse than this guy.

You’ve left me no other option. I’m forced to make idle threats that I will never carry out. Let this be a warning: You eat one more tulip, and . . . *slides hand across neck in slicing motion* Let’s just say it won’t be pretty.

Love,
Megan

An Open Letter to CVS

Dear CVS,

What’s the deal? Why must you be so environmentally irresponsible? I had higher expectations for you. I must say, you really let me down this time.

It was just a simple errand. I needed one little item—travel-sized, airplane-approved contact solution. Less than a four-dollar purchase. But it turned into the day I lost faith in one of the nation’s largest drug-store chains.

For that one small item, my receipt was nearly two feet long. Yes, you read that correctly. Twenty-one inches of wasted paper. What, CVS, do you think paper just grows on trees or something? Come on. Get with the program! This is 2008 and you ought to know better. I don’t need your coupons or your “extra bucks.” If you insist on including them, try printing them on the back of the receipt. Here’s another novel idea—maybe you could NOT print your logo and tagline three times.

I’m sorry, CVS, but I just can’t be with someone who insists on being so wasteful. I’ll give you one more chance, but next time you try to pull something like this, we’re through.

Sincerely,
Megan