Saturday, October 8, 2011

The Countdown is OVER

Dear Sprout,

This is my last letter to you while you are on the inside.

Holy crap!

Welcome to week 39, the week you will be born. This week you are the size of a newborn -- a real, live baby boy. And tonight, we start the journey to bringing you into our arms.

As you can tell, I have not gone into labor naturally. I did what I could. My body just hasn't been ready. Tonight we start the induction. You may be born then, you may take a day or so to get here. In any case, my amazing son, you will be with us in a matter of days with the help of a few drugs to get the party started.

In a mere matter of hours, we will be in the hospital -- holing up until we have a baby. You have a lot of people cheering for you and ready to meet you, so let's not dawdle, okay?

This past week has been a very emotional one for me. I am scared and nervous. I'm thrilled. I'm just plain overwhelmed. What if I change my mind? Can I just keep you in there forever? I mean, it might be a little awkward when you're 16 and six feet tall and wanting to date, but I think we can make it work.


Today, we are going to get some pedicures and have a nice dinner before heading to the hospital at 6:00PM. We're going to have one more relaxing day before our lives change for good. For the better.

I have been on edge for the past 24 hours. I absolutely cannot wait to see your beautiful face and hold you in my arms. It's been a lifetime in the making.

All of my love,
Your mama


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

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