What up, unborn baby? Oh yeah. Not much, huh? That’s a uterus, for you! Hang in there.
Anyway, your mom’s been hassling me about posting something here, and, well, I guess I may as well, even though there’s not much new to report. You kick a lot lately. Your mom feels it all the time. But when she puts my hand on her tummy to feel you, you stop. What’s up with that, unborn baby? Are you scared of me? Mom’s also been admonishing me not to swear around you, even though you can’t make out what I’m saying, and you don’t know a cuss word from a crossword anyway. I say f*#k that.
We’re trying to lay out all the stuff we need to get before you arrive. Your room’s ready, which means only there’s a room waiting for you. There’s a big bed in it that your grandpa Harvey made (Ava called him Poom Poom for a long time but now just calls him grandpa, usually), but we’ll I’ll move that out and replace it with a crib for you. Our pals Ben and Buffy are letting us use a nice stroller that folds up real small when there’s no baby in it. That’ll come in handy on our morning strolls in Grand Marais in August, assuming you don’t come too early and screw up your mom’s maternity leave.
I’m sorry I haven’t written, baby. To make up for it, here’s a picture of your beautiful mother that I took last weekend:
