Dear baby,
Well, today is the day before you are born – unless of course you decide to either come sooner than that, or you decide to turn before then, neither of which seems likely.
It’s quite a surreal feeling actually. I don’t quite know what to feel. Everyone around me is so excited, but I’m just nervous. I’m nervous about getting a caesarean for a start. I’m also nervous about you – I want to know that you’re OK, and I won’t know that until you’re here.
How it all began: Peeing on a stick
And then you add to that nervousness the feeling that comes with relinquishing 32 years of selfishness. Sure, I share my life with your Dad, but we do whatever we want really. And though the last nine months have forced me to make sacrifices, I’m still essentially able to act pretty selfishly – in some ways even more so, as being pregnant somehow entitles you to be more selfish than ever before.
I find myself feeling sentimental today. I’ve been looking back on old photos and marveling at all the fun your Dad and I have had. I’m still lying in bed at 11am, well aware that this might be one of the last days I’m afforded such a luxury without a child attached to me. I’m also contemplating a nice, long, 30-minute shower. It’s funny when I put it all like that it sounds like I’m a bit whingy, like I’m upset about the changes that will occur in my life. I like to think it’s more of a self awareness, an acknowledgement that tomorrow our lives change forever. Everything we know is going to turn upside down.
It’s funny, I think being at work took my mind off everything. But, here I am now, work is done, and I find myself feeling nervous about the fact that I’m going to be a parent. It’s almost like the idea hadn’t occurred to me. Of course, it had, but it’s a very strange feeling, knowing that soon you’re responsible for the wellbeing of a little person, for helping them become the best version of themselves they can be. Your Gran says I should have already thought about all this, but I guess I had so many things to keep my mind off it, I didn’t. I’m told it’s not uncommon.
Your Dad is super excited. He too is a little nervous about the caesarean, and just wants to know that you’re OK, but he can’t wait to give you a cuddle. I think he’s going to struggle being away from the two of us for three nights. I know I’ll struggle being without him for three nights – especially with a newborn. I’ve bought your Dad a little present actually. For the last nine months it has been all about me, and now it’s all about you. I wanted to give him something just for him. I think it’s tough for him, and it’s probably only going to get tougher as you and I work out our own routine while he goes to work. Poor Dad.
So, I go in tomorrow at 7am. With any luck my flu will have subsided further by then (that’s right, I’m STILL sick). Who knows, by this time tomorrow I might have you in my arms. That’s a nice thought, baby girl. I can’t wait to meet you, to hold you, to love you. Yes, I’m nervous and I’m scared, but I’m also so happy that you’re nearly here, so happy that I get to see your little face, touch your little hands and cuddle you.
I guess this concludes our story, little girl. I’ll write one last time when we’re back at home. Like all good stories, we have to know how it ends! See you tomorrow, my princess.
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