To the father of my child:
Thank you for taking this journey with me. When I told you two and a half long years ago, when you were known to me, but not familiar, that I wanted to bear your children, I was serious. Your pause and mischevious smile showed that you knew I was, too. It was maybe a strange kind of flirting, but in all our time together, we've had a sense that it was somehow our duty. And even though neither of us believe in fate or gods or mysticism, we can't help but use those words when our child is involved. Our miracle, our blessing, our angel.
I didn't think that being pregnant would be such a couples activity. Or that when I couldn't eat anything, you'd bring me glasses of juice, ad infinitum. When I couldn't watch food on tv, you'd turn it off. I didn't know that when the baby's kicks became so strong they were visible as ripples across my skin, that you'd stay awake while I slept, watching him. You and he, cut of the same cloth, nightowls together. I didn't know that all of it would make me love you, and him, even more.
Now, as we navigate this terrain, where we've had to cast aside our long nights out on the town for early ones at home, I am as glad to have you with me as ever. When our babe finally sleeps through the night, his face suddenly adult with all the composure of sleep, I feel like we've accomplished more than a million roadtrips across the country and back.
With much love,