I was cleaning out some drawers today and found a letter I'd written to Junior exactly two years ago today. I've always been jealous of A Letter to Xander, which is why I read the site obsessively (plus it's funny and cool), but after finding this I realize if I'd continued along this vein Junior would have needed extensive therapy and Paxil.
Today your father and I have been married for six months and one day. We dated for almost 10 years then in one year got married, bought a house and conceived you. Nothing like going from 25 mph to 150 mph. Perhaps the rest of our lives will follow the same formula because as of yet we haven’t set the world on fire. I don’t mean that disparagingly, I only mean that, well, we don’t have Hollywood handprints nor are we known outside our small circles. I guess we’re average. Not small minded or dumb, just middle of the road. (This is coming from me, remember, my hormones have incited a certain melancholic wistfulness, plus it’s winter and someday you’ll know about the seasonal malaise known as SAD because for some strange reason we chose to live in the Northeast. Although I am thankful for the camouflage of heavy sweaters and coats because I have always hated my upper arms—go long!—and I do not relish the thought of wearing a tank top in a few months and topping the scales at 175.)
I had my second ultrasound and heard your heartbeat. It was nice and strong and sounded like you were doing a bunch of karate chops. I don’t mean to be rude but it’s strange to think of you in there growing and moving without asking me if it’s okay to do that in my body. I wish I could see in there; it must be dark. Obviously.
A little forewarning about the family you are coming into: There are a lot of crazy people. The good kind of crazy. Harmless, but off their rockers. And your dad. He had hair when we met but now he’s bald. What God took from his head he gave to his body tenfold. He looks like Sasquatch. My mother—your grandmother—has a thing for Magnum P.I. and sometimes asks if she can touch your dad’s hairy chest. This makes for awkward get-togethers, so your dad has taken to wearing turtlenecks when we visit.
Just so you know, I was about to get a dog when you appeared as a little pink cross on my Brooks drugstore home pregnancy test. I didn’t mean to buy generic—we want to give you the best—but the tests can get expensive and your dad and I weren’t being that careful (in his words, “the goalie was out of the box.”) Anyway, I don’t mean to say that you dashed my lifelong dream of getting a puppy, it’s just that your dad promised that once we got a house I could get a dog and then bam, there you were. So as soon as you can say dog we are hitting your father up for a puppy. I don’t care if it ends up being my responsibility, I want my own godamned dog. If I don’t get one I’m afraid it will say on my tombstone “Here lies Mrs. Mullet. She never got that dog. Now look at her.”
Your dad is at the only pub in town right now. He’s threatening to quit his new job if they fire his friend. Sometimes I think he read too many comic books as a kid because he is obsessed with quality and fairness. Don’t get me wrong, these aren’t bad qualities, it’s just that when you couple them with the Viking garb and sword you kind of get this mental image. Thor, Crusader for Freedom or something. Yes, your dad is a Viking. Not literally, but unfortunately he adores those tacky and awful Renaissance fairs. I wonder if you might be a celestial conspirator of mine because you are due right around the time of the biggest fair of the year. If you and I plan this right and you come a few weeks late he can never go again. Just something to think about as you enjoy the ample amenities of my womb into the summer.
Well, I’m tired. See you in six months.
Love, Your soon-to-be mother.
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