Dear Baby Boy,

First, you need to know something about your mama. She is not the type of girl who writes letters to unborn babies and posts them on the Internet. She doesn't use those pregnancy counters or little animated blinking babies or anything to indicate that she has a warm gooey center of sentimentality.

She also never thought she'd be the type to refer to herself as "Mama" in the third person, at least not until you were here and screaming inconsolably and she would try to reason with you by calming yelling back that MAMA'S EARS ARE HURTY NOW, PLEASE PLEASE CEASE WITH THE SCREAMING.

It's not that you weren't loved or wanted or the greatest thing that ever happened to me ('cause you are, already), it's just that I am not "mushy," which was what I used to call kissing scenes in movies when I was a little girl, so I'm guessing that's a word you'll understand soon if you're anything like me.

I loved you from the instant I found out you existed. And it was a fierce, protective love. I'd have given anything to protect you from the bad things that happen to tiny, tiny embryos in those early weeks of life. I ate salads and took vitamins and stressed about whether I was taking the right vitamins and if I should take another vitamin if I possibly threw up that last vitamin because oh, my God, I was so sick.

But I was mostly loving and protecting the idea of you. I mean, you looked like this. I couldn't quite believe that little blob was going to turn into an actual person, but by gum, I was going to do everything I could to give that blob a fighting chance.

There were two times when I thought I'd lost you. The first time, you were still just our little blob. The second time, we knew you were our little boy. I felt like I'd failed.  It was my job to keep you safe and growing and I'd let you down.

(You turned out to be okay both times, in case you were wondering.)

But that's the way it was, before I knew who you were. You were this strange little being inside me who would kick me (haaaard) every once in awhile to remind me of your presence. I avoided alcohol and got enough iron; and in turn, you'd delight your dad and me with the mysterious bulges and rolls under my belly. That was the deal, and I eventually came to believe that you might actually come out one day and complete our little family.

And then I saw your face.

And you're an actual person now.

I wasn't prepared for that moment. Your dad and I planned the 4D sonogram months in advance. We invited your grandparents and told them it would be "cool." I don't think they really understood what they'd be seeing.

Apparently, neither did we.

Your face appeared on a monitor and everyone in the room sucked in their breath. Your dad was sitting on a couch on the other side of the room and came running to my side to grab my hand and kiss my head and we just stared at you in absolute awe.

Like, where did this kid come from?

And how come I love him so much?

You're no longer just an idea. You're my son.

(The mind, how it boggles.)

So there you go, little guy. A very disorganized letter that takes a very long time to get to the point. Which is that I love you more and more with each passing day, to the point where my heart just might burst.

Which I probably could have just said, but like I mentioned before, I'm not the type who usually writes stuff like this, so I don't quite have the hang of it.

So hi. Love you. Crazy about you. Think you're the greatest thing since sliced bread and the most beautiful negative-12-week-old baby in the entire world.

Not that I'm biased or anything.

Love,

Mama

P.S. I think you have my chin. You're welcome. It's a good chin.

Best of one  +  best of the other - my neuroses  x  our love for each other  =  you.