…with a bang, it turns out. Unborn baby, that big jolt you felt this morning was your mother falling on her butt in our bedroom while she was getting dressed. As usual, she was tottering around on her high heels in front the the mirror. When she went to do her little model-turn, she caught her heel and went down hard. I assume you’re all right, since you’re floating around in a big sack of water right now, but it’s possible you could’ve sensed a little something. Hope it wasn’t too rough! Don’t fret; your mom’s OK. Just a little embarrassed, mostly.
Today marks the beginning of our 39th week of pregnancy. That means you’re due to arrive in seven short days. I should probably write something profound, just to prove I can. Well, I’m looking forward to being your father. Sadly, I’ve amassed a pretty good list of things I’d do differently if I ever had another child. I should caution you, however, that the presence of this list is no guarantee that I’ll actually implement any of its contents. But I’m going to try. And I hope I learned something from raising your big sister to the ripe old age of 5, even though most days I feel like I’m a babysitter meeting her for the first time. My hope for you is the same one I have for Ava: That you’re able to look back on your childhood and your mom and dad with fondness. I’ll try to always stop and read to you whenever you ask. I’ll stick those painful plastic earpieces from your toy stethoscope into my ears to check your toy dog’s heart and lungs whenever you want to play vet. And I’ll give you a piggyback ride upstairs even when my back hurts and even though you curl your toes over the top of my belt so you can stand up like a rider on a circus pony as I tramp up the steps. There will be tough times, unborn baby. Earaches and skinned knees and fevers and broken toys and a whole bunch of things we can’t even contemplate now. But I’m going to try my best to keep the good stuff coming, and maybe that’ll keep the bad times at bay.
See you soon.