A letter to my baby
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A Letter To My Baby

My little ZomBaby,

I’ve had mixed feelings about becoming mama, to be honest. Straight outta high school, there were girls that I knew that were churning out babies and getting married and settling down before I could say, “Hooray graduation!” In truth, many of them seemed pretty damn happy. It made me anxious to feel that although I was married, if I didn’t have babies I wasn’t considered to be a “grown-up”.

Being a grown-up is fallacious, little dude. When you hear me telling you to act your damn age at some point during your life, I expect you to call me on it. There’s plenty of time to act your age when you’re good and ready. Heck, there’s plenty of time period. I’m not rushing you.

I like that you haven’t rushed me either. We had a bit of a rocky start, you and I. I had a horrible cold for the majority of our first month together, followed by bouts of nasty nausea.

I wasn’t even sure if I was ready to be your mama. I didn’t know what to do. I found out about you when you were about the size of a sea monkey, sometime between preparing dinner and almost passing out in the kitchen. By the time I got to my first prenatal doctor’s appointment with your proud papa in tow, I loved you.

I loved you so much that it terrified me.

Your mama’s no stranger to love. I’ve loved hard. I’ve loved oh-so-wrongly and oh-so-rightly. I’ve had my heart trashed. I’ve done my fair share of trashing.

But when I loved you, it was just… there. I didn’t ask myself if this love was right or wrong or whatever the hell else that I’d ask whenever I knew I was slipping in the direction of soul-sucking, oh-sweet-mother-of-muffins, full on el oh vee ee. I just knew. I felt you and I knew.

And as terrifying and earth-shattering as it was to have that swirling bit of crazy wrapping itself around my heart, it was good.

I’m sitting here during my fifth month — you’re about the size of a squash — and smiling, thinking about what you’re going to look like or act like.

Will you be blonde, fair, and shy like your dad? Will you be dark and exuberant like me? Will you be a creator? An artist? A scientist? A great thinker? A great doer?

Whatever you look like and whomever you are when you seek and destroy your own quarter-life crisis (like any good twentysomething does), I will be proud of you. I will love you unconditionally; it will scare me and I will fight you at some point along the way, I’m sure, but I will love you.

I will delight in your accomplishments. I will comfort you in sorrow. I will be there to give you a bandage, a kiss, and words of encouragement when you fall down. I will watch you grow (and I will try my best not to get in your way).

I will read you Tolkien and Chekov and Munsch. I’ll play Pink Floyd, Fleet Foxes, and Great Big Sea for you so you can learn to dance; we’ll all dance together.

And when your dad throws you up in the air, in a pretty park in Kerrisdale, Vancouver, I just know that you’ll love us too.

I can’t wait to meet you.

All my love,
Mama

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Image by Darrel Birkett

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