Faintly

Dear Baby Wojtek, Ward, Montgomery, George, Sylvester, Frank, Ronald, Dwight, Douglas, Elmer or Floyd:

I’ve been dreaming you a boy lately. In the last one, you had just been born, and I was having trouble figuring out your car-seat. You were tiny and sleeping. I got you settled and turned my head for a second. When I looked back, you had elongated. You barely fit in the car-seat anymore, and you had light brown hair static-stuck to your forehead. It was stick straight, and you opened your eyes and started talking to me. I don’t remember what you said, but I asked you what had happened and said that you shouldn’t be so large because you were just born today. I don’t think you understood my distress, you were just you.

I’m starting to feel you faintly sometimes. Sometimes it reminds me of those water balloons we used to get at Walgreen’s. The ones that are made like tubes. The ones that slip through your hands. They slip faster the tighter you try to hold them. This water balloon feeling moves sideways across the inside of my stomach, which is firm now and expanding.

Sometimes, I think I feel a tap. A short series of taps that makes my breath catch. I stop whatever I’m doing and try to will you to do it again. Other times it’s like bubbles, like everyone says, but still so faint, barely there. Sometimes it’s like a vibration. It’s always hard to describe.

Your ears should be working by now. Which means that through all the other cacophonous sounds of my body, you might begin to recognize my voice’s unique resonance. Your dad’s, too. I like hearing him talk to you, and I like talking to him about my dreams of you.

So much is so up in the air. We don’t call you by any name. Sometimes you get “Peanut,” but mostly you’re still just “it.” Some parents have names set from before conception. Not us. I think we might want to meet you first, but in the meantime, we are having fun coming up with ideas.

We’re looking forward to meeting you. Sometimes, though, the reality of you as a baby who cries and needs overwhelms me a lot. I hardly know what to do with myself in a picture like that, much less the picture of you. We are working hard on ourselves and our home so that we can be good for you. I know we won’t be perfect, though. I’m okay with not being perfect. This is new for all of us, so we just have to wait and see what happens. It’s hard not knowing what it will be like for sure, but it’s also fun to spend this time imagining and dreaming. I hope that you are enjoying this time, too.

Love,
Mom

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