Letters to Someone - Week 6

Dear LL,

Today, I am six and a half weeks pregnant with you. It's been really hard to keep from announcing your presence to everyone in the whole world, but it won't be long now before your presence can't be concealed.

So far, you haven't really made your arrival known. My boobs are really sore. And I'm queasy, although thankfully not sick. You seem to appreciate bread and cold butter. And I'm really grateful you allow me to get home and still have some energy left to get out to the garden. You're going to be a veggie baby. All the plants are growing. I hope you like beans; we're going to have tons. And please let me continue to eat garlic. I think that's a fair trade for having to give up wine, don't you?

Your dad and I are so excited to meet you, but we'll have to wait until February. That seems like an eternity. Each week, we've been reading about what you look like, and what you're doing. Right now, at week six, we're told you're about the size of a lentil. Your dad went rummaging through the pantry for the lentils, and got one out. He placed it in the palm of my hand, and we stood in the kitchen, staring at the lentil. So tiny. I hope you get bigger soon. Big enough that we can't lose you in a jar of legumes.

And ever since that moment, we've been referring to you as "Little Lentil." Sorry about that; it just stuck. Once we can tell who you're going to be, I promise we'll switch to your name. But until then, you're still with LL.

Do you know you were conceived on the first try? Goodness. I hope everything you aim for is this easy. You can thank your mother's genetics for that one. We Irish peasant stock sure know how to populate. You Grandmother Ferriot has been torturing me with stories of twins in the family. And how she gained 100 pounds with your father. And how your father was so big at birth that the hospital didn't have any clothes that would fit him.

So, look, here's the deal. If you promise to be born singly, in the 6-8 pound range, and are happy with me gaining the optimum amount of weight, which is less than 25 pounds, I promise to never, ever make you look like Little Lord Fauntleroy. Which I can do. Because I'm the mom. Deal?

In all seriousness, please get strong and healthy and develop all your little insides. We're all getting ready for you. Oh, except that you might not be able to sleep in the bed with us. I've had a talk with Murphy, and he is unwilling to consider that he should remove from his accustomed spot between us, and on my pillow. We're working on it, though. Maybe you can switch off?

Take care of yourself; we're taking care of you. Sleep tight.

Love,

Your Mama