To my darling Poppy boy,
As I write this, you are transforming my belly into a wild landscape of peaks and valleys, shifting hills and mountaintops and rolling waves, earthquakes that take my breath away. You are alive. You are thriving. You are okay. And right now, you belong to me.
I don’t know much about you yet. Or about us. But at least I know that.
We are not long from meeting you. It could happen any day now. Today. Tomorrow. Or some day soon down the road. There are a lot of familiar birthdays approaching — days owned by cousins, dear friends, your grandmother, even your sister. I hope that you’ll have your own day, but whichever one you choose is the right one, I know. And I do hope you get to choose, sweet boy, and aren’t forced to evacuate as your sisters before you. But either way, I suspect that you’ll have October blood. It’s a feeling that’s been growing inside of me since the day I learned about you. But you could surprise me. You already have every step along the way.
Do you know that you’re a miracle, my darling? With all my fertility issues, really with my true lack of fertility, it is a wonder that with one simple attempt you were here. I didn’t know it could be so easy. I didn’t know that it could be so easy for me. It’s as though we merely wished you into existence. And so I know you were meant to be. Meant to be here and meant to be ours. Indeed, I believe that long before God even breathed life into me, your own life was written into the stars. It’s only relatively recently that we learned about you, but you have been ours from the beginning of time, I’d say.
It’s no secret that I have struggled with thoughts about your gender, about my ability to mother a boy. Boys are a fine mix of tenderness and strength, fire and earth, active energy and quiet stillness. How do I harbor that? How do I nurture one part without crushing the other? Motherhood is an art. Poppy, I loved you before I knew what you were and I love you even more now, and I want the best for you. I just fear that I am not good enough to give you all you deserve. And yet, just the other day when I told this to your daddy, he said that I am full of love for all creatures, all people, children that aren’t even my own. He has little doubt that my bond with you will come instantly. I am so glad that his faith in me is strong when I am not.
There is so much that is unknown right now. The future holds so many secrets that will only be uncovered and revealed over the space of many weeks, months, and years that lay ahead. What kind of baby will you be? How will you change our family dynamic? How will your sisters adjust? Will parenting a boy be different than parenting a girl? Will parenting you, who came to us so quickly, be different than parenting a baby who arrives after many months of heartbreak and tears? Will we ever sleep again? And on and on, the questions go…when they’ll stop nobody knows.
Your daddy is unsure how we will have the time, money, and energy for three children. He worries that each of you will be deprived of all the attention and affection you should have. He has expressed, not recently but in the past, that we may be damaging our children by having too many. But what he has yet to realize and understand is that you are a gift. A gift to us because we get to love you and watch you grow, but a gift to your sisters as well. As they are to you. One more person to love and be loved…what can be wrong with that? Our time and patience may often be stretched thin, but there is so much love in our home. Nothing else really matters.
And so despite the fears and questions and doubt, we wait for you. With excitement. Anticipation. Hope. And great, grandiose love. We are (mostly) ready for you, whenever you are ready to meet us. Take your time, but know that whenever you arrive, our arms and hearts will welcome you. Your sisters are asking for you. Your daddy talks about you with great wonder. And I long to hold you. See you soon, Baby. Very, very soon.
With lots of love and gentle kisses,