Sunday, September 21, 2008

Minus One Month: My Letter to Tiny Man

Exactly one month, four weeks, 30 days and fewer than 720 hours from now, I will be holding you in my arms. The mystery of your face, blurry in the multitude of sonograms I’ve had, will finally be revealed. Will you look like the puffer fish that you seem to be in the sonograms? Or have you simply been storing nuts in those cheeks of yours, worried that the outside world would be a place without food? Will you have a full head of hair like your brother did, or will I kiss your bald head, cherishing its warmth and smoothness? Will your tiny hands lay in mine, all tiny with piano-playing fingers, or will I try to swallow chubby hands whole? Thirty short days.

Yesterday, I took your brother to his sibling class at the hospital, and there he learned to feed you and change your diaper and a myriad of other things that knowing your brother, he will fully intend to do when you arrive. When I was packing today so that you and I could leave for San Francisco, our last trip together as one, your brother got excited and asked “are we going to the hospital?” The last thing you can say is that no one wanted you around.

The last two sonograms have shown that you continue to grow at a steady rate, by the next sonogram, I expect that they will find that you are bigger than your brother was at birth. During the last sonogram, taken only a week and a half after the previous one, it was revealed that you had gained almost a full pound. I jokingly said that you needed to lay off the French fries, but the truth is, I know exactly what’s behind your growth. And that would be La Madeleine’s tomato basil soup. I seem to be slightly obsessed with it and you and I consume a large bowl of it for lunch at least once a week. Most people would think tomato basil soup sounds innocuous, but the truth is, Tiny Man, that this is no ordinary soup. This soup’s first two ingredients are cream and butter. This soup probably offers us the same amount of fat as a Big Mac would. It’s our weakness and one that you lovingly kick me in return when we consume, as its warmth spreads to our extremities and the vitamin C awakes all of our senses.

Last week, you and I had a minor scare. I say minor, because I always knew everything was. You see, you might as well find out about this now, but your Mama is one clumsy lady and last week demonstrated it. Your dad and I went to the hospital for a tour and I managed to slip and fall. The hospital offered to check me out and I agreed and they found out that I was contracting. I knew you weren’t really ready to come out, so I wasn’t worried, but it meant that you and I had to stay in the hospital for 24 hours while they figured out what was going on and how to ensure you stayed in the safety of my tummy a few weeks longer.

They hooked me up to monitors, one which listened to your heartbeat, the other one monitoring the contractions, and I laid there, in that hospital bed, the only sound to keep me company was the whooshing of your heartbeat, strong and reassuring, and my favorite sound in the whole world, beside your brother’s laugh.

I have to ask you for a big favor. No matter what you do, don’t decide to come during the next four days while we’re out of town. A lot of people didn’t want me going on this trip, your father included, but I’m very excited about it and with your cooperation, we’ll get to San Francisco and back with some great memories, a little more tired and ready to face the next chapter in our lives.

In case I don’t remember to tell you this after you come, I want you to know that I’ve loved being pregnant with you, as much as I loved being pregnant with your brother. I’m one of those lucky women who loves being pregnant so much, despite the worries that come with it, that I’d happily do it 50 times if my body allowed me too.

Maybe I’m cherishing every moment with you now because I know that you are likely to be my last baby. You are truly a miracle baby, some that people had told me I shouldn’t even dream about. But we’ve proven them wrong, you and I, haven’t we? We’ve made it this far thanks to a great doctor and our stubbornness to make sure that you would come into this world safely.

I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and stare at you until I’ve memorized every feature of your face and body. Until then, you remain mine and only mine, your movements, your kicks and punches, your hiccups my entertainment alone. In 30 days, the world will welcome you with open arms, just like I will, my little boy.

I hope you’re ready. Life is one hell of a roller coaster. And if you’re half as blessed as I have been with my life, I know that you will be one happy person. I love you already with every fiber of my body, and soon, all of those around us will have the chance to hold you as well and they too, will love you as much as I already do.

I love you, my Tiny Man,

Maman.

7 comments:

Susan said...

Will you be my maman aussie? Beautiful!

the planet of janet said...

can't believe it's only a month to go!!

can't wait for pictures of the real deal!

Rachel said...

Why must you do this to me on a Monday?

I cannot believe how soon he will be here! I cannot wait to see him and hear how LM is loving him!

Emma in Canada said...

Sibling classes? Really?

Great letter, as always!

Poltzie said...

This is beautiful! Really makes my womb feel empty!

Burgh Baby said...

I'm starting to wonder if you write these kick-ass letters just to take a stab at those of us sitting around with empty uteruses.

Loukia said...

Sigh... just beautiful! Hope you're doing well! I have not visited here in a while!