Dear Baby Girl…

Dear Baby Girl,

They say babies sense a lot from the womb, so I’m going to go ahead and ‘fess up: Mommy said a naughty word the night she found out about you.

She didn’t mean to say that word.

It’s just that she was sure after two years and about two thousand dollars of stock in a company called Clear Blue (something we’ll talk about when you’re 25), Mommy thought she’d found her first defective piece of very expensive plastic.

And to be honest… as a hopeful woman, Mommy — err, I — wasn’t sure I could handle one more ache of sadness.

Within a couple of weeks there was no doubt, though: You were shooting off hormones faster than jet missiles, and I was hurling at the same pace. We bonded while watching reruns of Bachelorette and sitting half-naked under a ceiling fan in a 60 degree house.

The hot flashes and morning sickness began to fade and I began to worry. We’d already thought we’d lost you once, only to have the ultrasound flicker: your tiny heartbeat.

Even so I worried again…

My concerns ended a few days later when Pastor Kevin said something exciting and you went all Pentecostal during the Baptist service. It was then that I knew: You and I were going to get along just fine.

You haven’t stopped moving since.

We’ve done everything together. Swam marathon distances, come home, lain on the couch and cried from exhaustion.

That’s when we took up walking… to the fridge and back.

You’ve been to every single music lesson I’ve taught. And you’ve definitely shared your opinions (via your feet and my ribs) about which students knew which notes to play when.

We’ve been to the beach, eaten too many doughnuts, slept late, stayed up all night. We’ve snuggled with daddy on the couch, watched too much TV, and killed a few houseplants.

Oh, and written a book. {Almost.}

I admit things are about to change.

In about 42 days you’ll move from dancing in my ribs to dancing through much less comfortable cavities in my body.

You’ll move from showing your opinions through your feet to shouting them in my ear.

You’ll move from late-night doughnuts to early-morning explosions of mustard-colored poop running down my hairline.

But I’m good with change. Because with that change comes a little girl I asked God for three years ago. With it comes a little girl who needs all the love her parents can give. With it comes the little girl I want to feel as treasured as her father makes me feel.

We can’t wait to meet you, Zoey Bree.

{Neither can the rest of your ginormous, loud, wonderful family.}

God has big plans for you. Go ahead. It’s okay to get excited about that.

Just do me one favor… don’t follow Mommy’s example and use any four-letter words to express your excitement.


5 thoughts on “Dear Baby Girl…

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