Letters to my Baby Boy - Week 36

Dear Sweet Pea,

We're rounding the corner into the ninth month, and although I'm trying to do it with a modicum of grace, most of the time I feel like I'm not succeeding. Your mama is cranky. Crankycrankycranky. I can't knit, and I can't sit comfortably, and the only thing that makes me feel any better is your dad. Who is SO excited for you. He talks to my belly constantly. He gives you raspberries. I love him.

So onto more important matters, like your name. You've had one for a while, but we were keeping it a secret. I was kind of superstitious about telling people ahead of your birthday. And we all know people who can't respond tactfully to a name choice that they don't like. I just didn't want the bother. Also, it was a nice secret to keep. Like when you know you've chosen a really excellent present for your loved one, but Christmas is still four weeks away. I love that feeling.

Then right before Christmas, I find out that your dad has been telling people! Coworkers. Friends. His hair stylist! (Did I mention how excited he is??) Basically everyone but our families. Which isn't fair, so over the holidays we shared your name, which of course is Liam Robert Ferriot. Yay! I love your name.

For the past few weeks, you've been getting the hiccups in the evenings. I think it might be the best feeling ever. Your whole head and chest rhythmically get these tiny spasms that just make us laugh. It's much, much more entertaining than your feet which are wedged up under my right rib. And let me tell you...you are not at all fun. I've really nudged you. Hard. But you're not giving up that spot.

Your room is kinda ready. I put together your furniture, and the floor is installed and the walls are painted. Your grandma Murphy and I are going to get it set up, soon hopefully. My sense of urgency is rapidly escalating as we get closer to your birthday. The past two weekends have both seen tearful episodes when I just can't take the dust and the still-unfinished areas of the house. Your dad is bewildered, but trying to make it better.

We're going to have a shower for you in a couple weeks, at which time I should be the size of a small whale. That should make for totally awful pictures which I'll have to hide somewhere. It's such a great excuse to see all my family and friends, though. You'll learn how much that means when you grow up here, a million and a half miles away from civilization of any sort that doesn't revolve around lawnmower races and ice fishing. I give you my word now that, despite our geographic handicap, you will not grow up unfamiliar with any of the following:

• libraries
• museums
• Jersey Freeze
• real bagels
• the beach
• NYC
• seafood
• Boston
• live theatre
  
• the Yankees
• real pizza
• aquariums
• live music

That's just a small sampling, but you've got my promise that, no matter how poor it makes us, you will be a cosmopolitan child who just happened to be raised in the country. Just please please don't ask me to take you to a mall or to Chuck E Cheese's. I mean, we've all got our breaking points.

I was beginning to get a little worried this week when you decided to take a nap for 36 hours and you stopped moving altogether. You've since resumed your normal squirming level of activity, but goodness child, don't do that to me. I would be thrilled if you came early, but not under duress.

Am trying to continue to keep your nourished in utero, despite my compulsion this week to eat nothing but ice cream. That should become somewhat less difficult now that we have our new refrigerator! You'll never know how exciting this is, because you will never have known our old fridge, which belongs in a hunting camp somewhere run off a generator. It's tiny, probably manufactued in 1956 and the only source of cold is a metal grate on the top. There is no fan to circulate the cold air, so any vegetable matter stored in it turns to mush within 48 hours. Therefore, we keep very little in the way of fresh produce. Plus, there was only ever room for six carrots and a head of lettuce. But now you're the proud owner of a 22.4 cu ft. Kenmore Elite bottom-freezer refrigerator that just makes your dad and I as insanely happy as can be. You, of course, were the ultimate justification for this acquisition. Can't have our baby fed spoiling food, can we?

I can't wait to meet you, baby boy. Keep cozy and keep safe, and start to think about making that long trip to the outside, okay?

Love,

Your mama