I'm not complaining, but my brain appears to have turned to cotton candy. I understand that you have quite the task, what with nestling into your home and setting up shop- and I certainly encourage you to do what you gotta do- but could you maybe ease me into this whole thing a bit?
Case in point, today I was at Barnes and Noble. I was with your Uncle Andrew and we were looking through names if you happen to sprout (BTW, ((do you know abbreviated code yet, youngin'?)), that is the name of one of your fur siblings!) a penis instead of a vagina. Daddy (Chris) and I (Kelly) have your name all picked out if you are a girl, Ms. Maya Papaya, but the boy name has caused arguments, earthquakes, and near fatalities in its wake. So for convenience sake, let's grow those labia shall we? So yes, I was in Barnes and Noble and I was purchasing Daddy a book on how to handle me when I get all psychotic from all those hormones you are pumping into my bloodstream, and while walking to the counter in a dizzy psychedelic haze, I swear that I heard the cashier ask me if I was a Barnes and Noble Rewards Member. Well Chris is a new member and specifically had instructed me to take Rewards card on all my journeys to the monolithic book store down the street. As this was an impromptu visit, I was unprepared and thus did not have my card on hand. So, as I'm walking to the register I inform the cashier that I did not have my card and could I use my phone number? He looked strangely at me at which point I realized that he was not talking to me, and instead the queries had come from the post juxtaposed to his left. I felt a bit of chagrin, but as you will come to know, I do not embarrass easily and besides he quickly noted the books I was purchasing and said, "Oh I see now." Then he goes on to spins his yarns about the preggos who hobble into his store, stoned on the vapors of their own body, and say and do the darndest things! It was my first and I sure not last, encounter in the world of "I am pregnant and therefore strangers all think they have implied permission to communicate with me about my condition." When they start reaching for the belly the elbows are going to fly.
So, unknown little alien, heart of half my heart and half of your dad's, I am making this blog as a homage to you. Your father is also writing a daily journal and we hope to detail all the wonder, love, fear, silliness, and whatever else comes from this union of two people who love you dearly, even if right now you are just a tenacious blastocyst (which means "sprout pouch" and which cracked us up greatly). As it's said, the mighty oak was once just a tiny acorn that held its ground, and right now and for the next 9 months you and I are one in the same, and where I end and you begin is just one large circle that goes round and round.
P.S. Forgive me if you pick up on the uncertainties, or the fears that came along with the realization that my life is going to be totally different in 9 months. See, your mother is a person who is hesitant to make big choices that define definite life paths. I am also a graduate student embarking on my first full semester. So I hope you can forgive me some natural trepidation. The good news is that your father and I love and respect one another, and we have talked about you and your arrival since almost the day we met. It was like you were an invisible presence, a beautiful inevitability, since the moment we met. Also, you were conceived in a really cool place (in the Bird of Paradise room in the CreekHaven Inn in Wimberely, TX, picture below) , on a night when your father took me into his arms, stroked my hair, and soothed me as I detailed my past and insecurities: he told me that I deserved all the best things in the world like warm nights and horses and that our hearts were open and tender vessels for each other's love. And while this is a stretch for a self-proclaimed agnostic, I believe that this was the night that your soul looked on, pointed its mystical finger, and chose to take part in what it was seeing.
PPS. I have a potty mouth; don't think it's OK for you to, though.
Pictures from Wimberely:
The Inn...so purty
The Culprit!
OK it kind of creeps me out that this freaky picture was watching us, um, make you...but maybe she was actually a divine mystical queen who uses her powers for good.
Carrot, Messenger God
Dizzy
And some pics of what your dad calls your "messages to us:"
Hard to see, (especially for Sprout, who is cross-eyed), but it says "Yes."
Daddy, message, cheeseballs, and video games.
2 comments:
Tell the cross-eyed wonder congrats on his pregnancy.
And then there were three...congratulations, little sis!
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