I kind of abandoned this blog for a while, mostly from fatigue and because I'm bad at sticking with projects (except you, of course). A lot has happened in the last six months--for one thing, we know that you're a boy now!
We've seen you in an ultrasound three times already, which probably seems like a lot, but I'm just impatient to see you again. I brought up to your dad earlier the idea of those 3D ultrasounds, but he pointed out that those can look kind of creepy, and he's-- well, he's right. Not that you're really any stranger to looking creepy...
...but we'd like to at least pretend sometimes that you're not Skeletor.
Still, I'm pretty impatient to see you again. Today is February 20, and you're due to be born in about 78 days. I know those days are going to fly by, and I know you're going to be here before I know it... and believe me, part of me is really stressed out about that fact.
But on the other hand, I can't wait to actually meet you and see what you're like in person. I can feel you moving a lot now, and I wonder if you'll be as active and excited when you're born as you are right now. I wonder if you'll look more like me or like your father... or like your Uncle Grant, as tradition seems to dictate. I wonder if you'll develop an affinity for sports or for music or for maths or for geekery or for dolls or for all of the above. I wonder if you'll be fussy and never sleep or if you'll be one of those miracle babies who sleeps through the night at six weeks. I wonder.
I realized tonight how fast it's all going to go by, your infancy and childhood. That was partly a relief to me--I was feeling very stressed out about the idea of how much you'll have me running around for the first several months, until I realized that those are just a few months, and that so far, months go by really quickly with you. On the other hand, though, it's not a relief. I know I'll want to make time slow down so often once you're here because I'll want that time I spend with you to really be something to treasure, whether it's with you falling asleep in my arms at 3 a.m. or with you needing a hug because of a scraped knee or with you giving me a hug because you're my 6'4" teenager and I made your favorite for dinner.
(you're going to be tall, by the way. I mean, look at how much taller your father is than I am:
And I'm not all that short!)
And because it's all going to go by so fast, I guess I want to close by saying that I hope you can forgive me, because I know I won't be perfect.
I like to imagine that I'll be a really good mother to you (and any of your future siblings). People tell me that I'll be a really good mother. But I know that mothers are human... we're not perfect. Somewhere along the line, I'm going to mess up. I'll hurt you. I'll do something that damages you. I'll cause a fracture in our relationship, and that will hurt me as much as anything of that nature can.
It might be a word spoken too harshly or a moment where I should listen and I don't. It might be something I do out of fear that will hinder you more than help you. It might be something as simple and silly as taking you to the beach and not realizing how tall the waves are--one of them will knock you down, and though you won't be hurt, you won't trust me because I promised the waves would be safe.
(this may have happened to me when I was seven, but it's okay: I got over it and now Grammy and I both avoid waves... for the most part)
But whatever it is, whenever it happens, however many times it happens: I'm sorry, and I love you. I hope you can forgive me for not being as good as I want to be for you. I hope you can accept that I'm human and be okay with it.
(note: I'm not going to apologize for not being your Pinterest mom or buying everything very organic or making you homemade Pop Tarts or instilling in you a passionate love of kale and quinoa. Some things are well past my limit)
