a letter to our unborn son
We found out you’re a little boy last week and I’ve been narrating letters to you in my head ever since. We saw you on that screen in black and white, wiggling and waving and let out the biggest sigh of relief when we were told you’re okay. Your heart is okay. Your brain is okay. Everything is okay. Everything is okay. Then we found out you’re a He and my heart swelled so big I wasn’t sure my body could contain it. A little boy. Our little boy. Suddenly you went from this anonymous little being and became our son and the colour of my whole world changed and became brighter.
We had a rough start, you and I. First there was the fear you wouldn’t stay, that perhaps you weren’t ready for this world yet. The thought haunted me every second of the day. I was so ready for you, I had been waiting such a long time to find out you were on your way but it wasn’t my decision to make. You had to choose to stay, and the hope in my heart grew stronger with every day you stuck around. Then there was the sickness. I laid in bed for what felt like months and questioned whether I was going to get us through it. I thought myself weak for succumbing so easily, for feeling so miserable when I should have been happy. I wanted to be strong for you. Honestly, between the fear and the sickness, I wondered whether I was resilient enough to be your Mother. Then one morning it all changed. I was laying in bed, too tired to move but my mind racing too much to sleep, and you moved. You shifted all of your little body to one side of my tummy and it jutted out in the weirdest and most wonderful way. I didn’t know you were a boy then but I knew you were there and that gave me all the strength I needed.
I grow more excited with each passing day to meet you, little one. I spend whole hours staring into space imagining our life together. Who will you take after? Will you be all sparkly blue eyes and pale blonde hair like your Father? Or will I get a look in? With your hair dark and skin golden just like mine. I wonder if we will have met before, not in this lifetime but in another. Will I recognise you as I did your Dad? A nice to see you again rather than a nice to meet you. Maybe you’ll be an old soul; your entrance into the world quiet and calm because none of this is new to you. There’s no need for dramatics you think, you’ve done this all before at one time or another. Or perhaps the opposite? Could you be a brand new shiny soul, kicking and screaming your way into the harsh lights and loud sounds of this new place? Unsure of why you were pulled from your safe place of nothingness and pushed into something else entirely.
I like to think of us dancing. You bundled up tight in my arms while we sway around the living room to my favourites. We already sing and dance often with you rocking away inside my ever growing middle. Occasionally giving a kick or two and leaving me to wonder whether you’re approving of my song choice or not. Music will be a huge part of your life, as it is ours. Although I’ll try and shelter you from your Dad’s fondness for Jazz for as long as I can. I can’t wait to see you with him. My boys. Little and large. I can’t wait for you to feel the warmth and safety of being wrapped up by him as I do often. To know he’ll protect you always and love you without condition. I already know that seeing all of your smallness being held in his arms will provide me with more than a lifetime of joy.
You’re supposed to be arriving in January, just like I did. We’re winter babies the both of us. I look forward to those first few weeks, the three of us hibernating behind closed curtains. Hiding from the cold outside while we breathe you in and adjust to our new life as a three. I have never enjoyed the darkness and cold that winter brings but I think I’ll learn to love it because this time it will also bring me you.
A perfect start to a new year.
All my love,