I want to have a baby. I don't have one yet.
Same old, same old.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
A Letter to Baby - August 10, 2011
Dear Baby,
I think of you all the time. I know that right now, you’re just a glimmer in our eyes, but I think of you just the same.
I wonder what you will look like. I hope you have blonde hair and blue eyes like your daddy, and you have my smile. I also secretly hope you don’t end up goofy-looking. Yes, your mommy is superficial sometimes.
I wonder if you will be a boy or a girl. This is funny because I really think that we will have a boy. After all, Waltons make boys. I think of names for you a lot. The names are usually girl names. I want to be able to have your name be unique, but not too weird. Harper Leigh, Bristow Jeanne, Felicity, Maire. There are a lot of names that I like, but students have ruined for me. This is a common teacher problem. When I was younger, I really liked the name Austin. But you won’t be an Austin anymore.
I thought you would be here by now. Daddy and I have been trying really hard for 20 months to make you. Sometimes, I put a pillow under my shirt to see what I would look like pregnant. But then I realize that it’s not good for my heart to think about things too much, and I take it out. God knows why we are waiting, so I will try to guard my heart more.
Today would have been your Nana and Papa's 37th anniversary. Your Nana wanted to meet you so badly. We were hoping you would come before she went to Heaven, but God wanted her to come home before she could ever meet you. I know that she can see you now--I must admit that I am jealous, because she gets to see you before I do.
I’ll be honest: sometimes, I am glad that you are waiting so long to come into our lives. There are times when it is nice to not have a child to worry about. This is because I am selfish. I like my independence and freedom. But this part of me wars with the other part of me. The part that yearns for the day you will come into my life. You will fill up this empty spot inside of me.
Want to know a secret? I have bought you some things already. I have a poster for your room, and some books, and some onesies. Sometimes I will see things that I know will look absolutely adorable on you, so I buy them. I keep them tucked away in a closet until the day I can bring them out to share with you.
I hope I get to meet you soon. I am trying my best right now to make a good home for you—one that you’ll want to get cozy in for 9 months. And your daddy is getting more and more anxious to know that you are here, too. You are going to have the best daddy in the world, do you know that?
Come soon, baby.
I love you,
Mommy
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
From "One Day" (part two)
"These days, grief seems like walking on a frozen river; most of the time he feels safe enough, but there is always that danger that he will plunge through. Now he hears the ice creak beneath him, and so intense and panicking is the sensation that he has to stand for a moment, press his hands to his face and catch his breath."
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
From "One Day"
Since this blog is much more personal, I thought I would post this here. An excerpt from "One Day", by David Nicholls. Dexter is speaking, who is confronting his mother's passing away from cancer (inferred):
"He had always imagined that some sort of emotional mental equipment was meant to arrive, when he was forty-five, say, or fifty, a kind of kit that would enable him to deal with the impending loss of a parent. If he were only in possession of this equipment, he would be just fine. He would be noble and selfless, wise and philosophical. Perhaps he might even have kids of his own, and would presumably possess the maturity that comes with fatherhood, the understanding of life as a process.
But he isn't forty-five, he is twenty-eight years old. His mother is forty-nine. There has been some terrible mistake, the timing is out, and how can he possibly be expected to deal with this, the sight of his extraordinary mother diminishing like this?"
"He had always imagined that some sort of emotional mental equipment was meant to arrive, when he was forty-five, say, or fifty, a kind of kit that would enable him to deal with the impending loss of a parent. If he were only in possession of this equipment, he would be just fine. He would be noble and selfless, wise and philosophical. Perhaps he might even have kids of his own, and would presumably possess the maturity that comes with fatherhood, the understanding of life as a process.
But he isn't forty-five, he is twenty-eight years old. His mother is forty-nine. There has been some terrible mistake, the timing is out, and how can he possibly be expected to deal with this, the sight of his extraordinary mother diminishing like this?"
Monday, August 1, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)