Hello again, unborn baby. It’s your dad.
I’ll no doubt catch all manner of heck for this admission (from your mom, mostly…maybe G.G., too), but it occurred to me as I drove back to work from home today that your impending arrival hasn’t consumed me the way the birth of your sister did. Which isn’t to say I’m not excited about it. Nor that I don’t think about it at all. I just find myself being surprised now and then by the realization that I haven’t been thinking about it all the time. It seems like I’m shirking a parental duty, somehow, and it doesn’t feel right.
In my defense, there’s a lot more going on in our lives now than there was when your sister was born. She was the result of a very conscious decision to start trying for a child, and when we came up (down?) pregnant right away, we were forced to kick all our preparations into high gear ASAP. Life was suddenly full of decisions about diapers and daycare and bottles and bassinets. Like so many things in life, that first time is always the most memorable.
As you’ll hear someday, we had more trouble conceiving you. Maybe this has resulted in a more guarded optimism about this pregnancy, like it’s not real somehow until you’re here. And I imagine we feel more like we know what’s going on now, too. We’re ready(ish) for the late (lack of) nights and illness and all the other little things that’ll come up when you move in. Call it a false sense of security.
Your mom and I already love you very much. We’ve seen pictures of you as you float around in your mom’s tummy, and we’ve even looked at the four chambers of your heart as it pumps away, fast as a bunny’s. I hope that, if you ever read this, you’ll forgive me my relative lack of excitement. I’m sure that this will all be behind us the minute you’re born and the hugging, snuggling, and kissing commence.