Dear Baby McLean,
So this is what 6:30 in the morning looks like. Dark grey light. Peaceful. Beautiful colors forming in the sky as the sun comes up. And two annoying hounds who want Daddy to get the hell out of the shower and feed them their chicken.
You started kicking around 5:00 a.m. and didn’t let up, so I figured I may as well just get up and get some coffee brewing and check out what Halle Berry has to say about being pregs in this month’s issue of In Style. I can’t say I look a fraction as gorgeous and glowy as she does, but now that the fun holiday bronchitis is finally behind me, I think I’m starting to get that second trimester feel-goodness that everyone talks about. Can you believe we have been together five and a half months? I still can’t. If I really sit and think about it, I get way too tripped out on how so very close and intimate you are to me, yet still such a complete mystery. I had moments where I thought I was done obsessing over you, but turns out I hadn’t even begun to obsess.
My Pregnant Christmas was one of physical misery, which turned into total emotional distress. It’s true for me that pregnancy lowers one’s immunity, and boy did somebody pass on a whopper to me. I came down with the bronchitis on Christmas Eve Day while we were up north visiting your Great Grammy, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I later found out I am also anemic, worsening my resistance and body’s defenses to fight off the cooties. I may as well have been naked in a snowstorm.
The lack of sleep is one thing, but lack of sleep compounded by constant racking cough accompanied by severe snot faucet effect left me frantic that somehow you must have been suffering. This was supposed to be a super happy family joyous time. I’m so sorry if you felt my anxiety. They say the mother’s state of mind is felt by the baby, but on sleep deprivation and illness, sometimes my state of mind just gets unbelievably out of control.
I’m having to start monitoring what I watch on TV because of you. I love the show 48 Hours: Hard Evidence on Discovery Channel. But can no longer watch the crime episodes involving kidnapping or children being harmed by people we share this world with. These things, aside from your kicking, wake me in the middle of the night and scare the living shit out of me. You’re not even born yet – how could I ever conceive of going through something like that where you are concerned if I am going to flog myself over taking a Tylenol while you live and grow inside me? It’s frightening to me how my pregnant mind works. I don’t have as much control over my thoughts as I am used to. Obsession is a slippery downward slope. And I’m pretty top-heavy right now.
I am working hard, my little son, on getting these thought processes under control. I have always been one to believe strongly in the power of the mind and the direction you can take your life because of it. This is something I really want you to know and understand as you grow up. It is this knowing that makes me not believe in astrology – I simply know innately that I am going to be exactly how I decide to be every day, and I choose to follow that path instead of some code of planetary alignments that tells me how I am supposed to be. I am way too complex for that, and I’m sure you will be too. So why should my Pregnant Mind be any different? It’s still me in here. But now I have you in here too, and I guess that changes the dynamic of things a bit.
Keep kicking, Little Guy. If you start to pick up on my crazazy, go ahead and give me a punch in the uterus. Maybe it will knock me back to my senses and remind me that somehow, some way, everything is going to be okay.