We’re calling you that now. We’re still holding out on each other about a middle name because we each have a different favorite and haven’t quite settled on our compromise name yet. I want Dominic. Daddy wants Christopher. I think you’ll end up being Elliot. We are so eager to have you in our arms. Daddy loves to poke you and tease you and calls you “his baby.” He calls you and me together “his babies,” actually.
It’s 9:30 on a Saturday night and I’m sitting in our living room with Daddy, who’s asleep on the couch, Uncle AJ, and 5 Katterjohns—great friends of my family. We’re watching movies and eating popcorn and ice cream. Uncle AJ is visiting for the week. He’s 16.
I can’t keep still. I am antsy and uncomfortable and I keep having to move every few minutes. My hands and feet are swollen beyond recognition, just in the past couple days. Thursday night we thought you were going to have to come early because I had vision problems that we knew could be symptomatic of preeclampsia. We’re glad everything turned out OK. I’m taking medicine for heartburn almost every day and I’m sleeping through pretty severe pain every night, waking up barely able to walk until I get my “pregnancy legs.” But I’m trying not to complain because I know I’m doing this for you and I love you. (And I know you are going to be even more work once we can see your face!)
I am so excited to meet you and to be your Mommy. As with anything in this life, I know I’m going to struggle to be joyful in it because I am an ungrateful and discontent sinner. But I’m determined to do what it takes toward that end because I so want to be your Mommy. I get almost giddy when I think about how beautiful you’ll be and the beautiful Minnesota spring and summer coming up and the freedom and leisure to just play outside with you all the time—to sit in the grass and walk with you.
The next three Saturdays are all about you: two weeks of childbirth education classes at the hospital followed by a baby shower. In a way I want you to come early and soon. I want my feet to stop swelling and I miss snuggling up to your Daddy—I just can’t get comfortable anymore. But I don’t want you to get here before these next three Saturdays are done, and I want to be ready, emotionally, for you to come late. Really, no matter what happens, I just get to remember that you’ll certainly be here within the next seven weeks, and usually that’s enough to make me stop fretting and smile. I really want to know how much you’ll look like your Daddy.
I love you.