A letter to my unborn child growing in my womb.
I guess I know a little about you, but you’re still such a mystery to me. I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl, so I can’t even give you your name yet. But there will be time to get to know you. Right now I’m just glad you’re here.
When I first realized you were in there, I laughed and laughed. I had been so positive I wasn’t pregnant, you know? You and God knew better, though. You’d been there for a few weeks, waiting for me to realize I wasn’t walking around alone after all.
You had wiggled snug into the wall of my uterus — I guess I should call it our uterus, since we’re sharing it now — and as you settled in, suddenly, my body was your home, too. Whatever we’re in for, we’re in for it together.
I keep forgetting we’re in this together.
When I found out you were there, one of the things I felt was a sense of being totally alone. Don’t worry, your Papa is fantastic, and he’s been there supporting me and celebrating you, every step of the way. He can’t wait to meet you. Still, he doesn’t know what it’s like to be pregnant. Even people who’ve been pregnant can’t know what it’s like for me, today, to be pregnant with you.
What we have is totally unique.
You’ll see, when you’re bigger. When you go through something so amazing, you’ll want to show people what it’s like! But pregnancy, this particular pregnancy, it’s just not an experience I know how to describe.
So that has been a little lonely.
But I keep forgetting that there’s one person I do share this experience with, and that’s you. Pregnancy isn’t just about m. A pregnancy is about two people, not one. It’s an experience that’s so sacred, so private, that it can only be shared by a mother and her baby — me and you, baby.
It’s so much better when I remember we’re in this together.
When I’m eating, sometimes I start to worry. Am I eating enough? Too much? Could I stand to put something a bit healthier into my body for you? When I remember that my meal is our meal, it helps me relax, and I just try to enjoy our meal together.
When I stretch, and the round ligaments holding you up don’t stretch with me? Oh boy, baby, that really hurts some days. I wonder how it feels for you in there. I hope it’s not too startling.
As I start to feel you squirming around in there, I’m trying to remember that I’m feeling you — but you’re feeling me, too. You’re feeling the firm walls of your home, secure up against you, warm and safe. I’m on the outside, I don’t always feel so safe and secure. I’m too busy thinking about all the things that might happen to you. But you feel safe, I hope. I’m so glad you feel safe in there. It helps me remember that everything’s okay.
I’m really worried about giving birth. But it’s going to be hard for you, too. If it’s scary and it hurts, I guess it’s scary for you too. But you know what? We’re going to get through it. It’s going to be intense, and it’s going to be beautiful, and I promise at the end of it, I’ll help you feel safe and cozy again. We won’t be sharing the same oxygen anymore, but we’ll still have plenty to share.
Soon you’ll open your eyes, and even though I won’t be able to see you yet, you’ll be able to see me. I can’t wait for the rest of the world to get to know you. For now, though, I think I’ll just enjoy how you and I share the experience of this pregnancy with just each other. Hang in there, baby. I can’t wait to meet you.
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