Dear chicklet,
You’re due in nine weeks. That’s really not long until we can cuddle you for real.
I think about how you’ll emerge, blinking and curious and yowling, from your quiet, cosy water world into our bright, noisy and chaotic one. How we’ll look in your eyes and curl your tiny fingers around our bigger ones and marvel at who you look like and what your life will be like and what kind of little boy you’ll be. What kind of man you will become. What we can teach you. And what you’ll teach us.
I think about you all the time, chicklet. I know it doesn’t seem that way, because I’m racing around like a blue-arsed fly all the time, trying to write to pay for the reno and when I’m not writing, I’m with the builder or the sparky or the plumber or buying stuff like rangehoods or sinks or taps or grout, or negotiating with Harvey Snoreman to get a good deal on a cool-touch oven. It seems like there’s no time to talk to anyone these days but tradies and your daddy and my doctor and occasionally, your Aunty Nat and your nanna.
As you’ve grown, my life seems to have shrunk into a bubble in which time ticks away and there’s never enough time. I worry about how we’re not home and how there isn’t a finished home for you, yet.
There will be though. Your dad and I are on the case and by the time you’re ready to make your grand entrance everything will be ready. Your nursery. A beautiful backyard with the French doors open and a daybed where we’ll sit in the sun and I’ll sing to you and tickle your fat tummy. A cosy couch where I’ll feed you a million times, no doubt mostly in the wee hours. Or on some rainy afternoon when your dad will give you a bottle and we’ll play with you and comfort you when you’re having a hissy fit (as I’m sure you’ll do, loads).
We talk about you a lot, your dad and me. We make plans for you. We call you by your name; the name that no one knows but us. We chat about you as if you were kind of in the room already. It’s not long until you will be, for real. Which is scary and exciting and amazing all at once.
I’m sorry for the junk food I’ve eaten. And the silly stuff I’ve obsessed and/or cried over. And all the times when I’ve squashed my bump into tight t-shirts and non-maternity yoga pants instead of comfy stuff so you can move. I’m sorry for all the times I’ve been too busy multi-tasking to talk to you or read the baby books or just sit with my bare belly in the sun and do nothing but watch you kick joyously. I know you love that. I promise we’ll do more of that before you come. I promise I’ll drink more berry smoothies and less frantically-slurped cups of tea. I promise I’ll eat more salads and less chocolate and sing to you more and play more of the music I think you’ll like from your dad’s pretty amazing collection. (It’s way cooler than what’s on my iTunes – trust me on that.)
Only nine weeks until you’re here, little one. I can’t wait.
Love, your mama bear.
X
