Dear Atticus, the latest news

Dear Atticus,

On Wednesday, we had another appointment to find out how you are doing. This one was, finally, with my regular midwife that I see at my yearly exams. Your dad hadn’t met her before, but he also liked her a lot. When I first told her back in December that we were thinking about expanding our family from two to three, she was very excited, so it was nice to finally get to see her during the actual process. I think your dad liked her so much because she rejected my joke about how I’ve let myself go since I saw her. He doesn’t like for me to make jokes about my weight. But I feel so big, Atticus! You make it hard for me to stand up without help, hard, sometimes, to walk. And so many people have commented on my size that it is hard not to say something first, to keep them from hurting my feelings.

Maybe she will be the one who delivers you. That’s been my hope all along, though all of the midwives are nice in their own ways. I admire people who make their living doing things that are mysterious to me, like people who deliver babies and are still overjoyed at the possibility of new ones, or people who work in bridal stores and manage to be excited about every bride trying on a dress. I suppose, though, that some people couldn’t muster the energy to teach students about the dangers of plagiarism over and over, to listen as they are enraptured with (or complain about) a book. When you are old enough to think about what you want to do with your life, I hope you will remember that it’s important to follow your passions, because it’s so much easier to get up and go to work if you are excited about and believe in what you are doing.

You are measuring just as you should, with a good heartbeat and healthy movements. You are already head down, which is a good sign. All the pain that I am feeling is also normal: the burning in the knuckles of my right hand and the top of my left foot and my left shin and in my ribcage (probably made worse by all your kicking). All normal. The swelling is normal. And the pressure is normal. And the lack of sleep is normal (though now it is from things on my mind rather and general discomfort rather than you elbowing me at 3:00 am). I am thankful that everything has, for the most part, gone very smoothly over the past few months.

I like seeing how you react to things that I do, how you kick during yoga as if you are trying to participate, how you no longer keep me awake by pounding on my side in the middle of the night, how you do move now while I am teaching. Maybe you hear all the kids asking about you and want to respond. Maybe it sounds like fun to you, the book sticks and the stories and the projects. (Sorry about that one little boy who keeps smacking you a little bit too hard. I keep telling him that we have to use gentle hands with the baby, but he’s so excited.) You get hugged a lot during the day, too, little boys and girls who are right at your level and put their heads on you. They want to know when you are coming out and they want to know when you will come to the school and visit them.

We have assigned you a sort of personality, just like we did with Big Bunny. We imagine you as a feisty sort of fellow, much like your mother. You appear to make your displeasure known (by kicking, of course). But maybe you are only playing. Maybe you are a gentle boy and we will laugh that we thought such a thing about you. Whoever you turn out to be, for now we are just thankful that you are doing well.

On Thursday, Alisa took some pictures of us as a family. I am not particularly fond of the idea of maternity photos, but I knew she really wanted to, and a few moms have said to me that their kids really like seeing maternity photos. So, for your sake, I decided to go for it. I am trying to make decisions with you in mind. Here’s a sample for you, just the two of us.



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