Oh, you, my dear, are my light and you're not even here yet. I get so uncomfortable sometimes, with this body of mine staying the same as you get bigger so everything seems off balance. I laughed yesterday calling your daddy a skinny minny and myself a roly poly and we giggled and walked on, arm and arm through the rain. But you are worth every single second of awkwardness.
Your daddy has been reading Charlotte's Web to you and the voices he does cracks me up. Last night he held up the book for you to see the picture, and I said, "We've discussed this." (implying that you do not have x-ray vision through my belly) and he responded that "Yes, we have" and gave me a withering look like I was hopeless, when you clearly had super powers. You like hearing his voice it seems and he gets close and whispers to you and kisses where we think your head is and he pats the other side and says "baby butt!" He's enthralled with you, and you're not even here yet!
You seem to have forgiven him for being away so long, and the two of you share special hours in the morning while I sleep where you hop about for him. But the afternoons are all mine, when I wake from what is becoming a daily late morning/early afternoon nap and you hop and flip about, causing my stomach to look like the ocean in a storm. And I daydream about what our afternoons this winter will be like, huddled in a blanket reading, taking in the rare sun of the days. Curled up, singing and listening to music. Napping. Definitely napping.
We whisper to you all the things you will see once you're here, all the places we will go. We sit at a cafe and I imagine ordering you a hot cocoa with whipped cream and you getting a mustache. We dream of each holding one of your hands and swinging you as we walk around the Smithsonian grounds, of watching those flying kites, of picnics in the grass.
But we've still got a while. And I'm perfectly fine with that. You stay there where it is warm and safe and just enjoy little one.