Saturday, May 14, 2011

Still Feeling Perfect. Dammit.

Dear Sprout,

Again this week, we're totally boring. Nothing is going on. Absolutely nothing. Lots of simple, everyday life. This is both pleasant and dull.

I know this won't last. This week you've been the size of an onion. It's only a matter of time until I can feel all of your acrobatics. While I really love sleeping, I can't wait until the first time I'm woken up by you kicking me in the liver. I'm a masochist that way.

Pregnancy brain is setting in. I notice my mind drifting off into space more and more frequently. The other day at work, I was typing some numbers into the computer just to realize I was typing them into the phone instead. I was doing a report for the boss and once it was complete, I deleted it entirely, having to do it all over again. I forget things, I daze out, I generally feel pretty ditzy right now.

The past few days have been so gorgeous, so clear and sunny. It makes you truly see the beauty of this area when the sun is shining on the water and you can see the mountains that surround us. Yesterday was so perfect that for a moment I was genuinely ecstatic that your life will be here.

You get to be born in the most amazingly enchanting part of this country. You get to grow up surrounded by unbelievable natural beauty. All of it, you probably won't appreciate the way I do with you seeing them every day of your life. Someday you'll grow up and want to live somewhere new and I'll scoff and think you'll never find a place so magical. But I do hope you'll try.

When the sun was shining in my eyes and I was looking at the mountains yesterday, I wasn't thinking about all that you'll be missing out on-- away from our families. For those moments, I was thrilled to be able to raise our child in this place, so full of culture, excitement and a world of things to find wonder in. I like to hold onto these moments... ones so filled with hope for your future. The keep me sane, keep me from wanting to run back to the home I come from and then family I so desperately need.

Since I have nothing else to write about, I'll leave you with this. It's aimed towards girl children, but I think the pronouns can be changed and it applies to you if you're a boy. (Minus the tattoos, just be smart about it, kid.)

I love you, little baby...growing all big in there.
<3 from your mama.

"The Mother's Prayer for Her Daughter" by Tina Fey

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered,
May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half
And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.
Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes
And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,
For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming
Magenta for one day –
And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever,
That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers
And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,
For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,
That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.

“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.

But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.


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