Dear Unborn Child of Mine

Everyone warns you about postpartum depression. No one talks about how the mood can creep in before, settling into your skin as you fight the nausea and food aversion, until suddenly you realize you've been carrying this crushing blanket for weeks on end and it's about to suffocate you. That this beautiful thing you've always wanted, the only want you've ever been certain of in your entire life, may crush you before its first breath. That the tears will suddenly fade to a disconcerting nothingness, that each day is simply a roadblock to the night where you can crawl back under the covers and hope tomorrow will be better.

It did get better. I credit your father and modern medicine for that.

Everyone warns you about exhaustion, but somehow forget to mention the awakeness. The sudden opening of the eyes in the middle of the night to a clock that only reads 3:15 am, hours before your alarm is set to go off. Hours you could definitely use because lately you've needed TWO naps to get through a work day, passed out on the couch or the bed or a car ride. Leaning against a wall in a workout class with the music thumping so loudly you feel it in your bones, fighting to keep from falling asleep upright. Yet here we go again, roaming the house at 3:15 am because darkness is now meant for awakeness.

It did get better. Again, modern medicine for the win.

Everyone thinks the bump is cute, but what about when the bump is supposed to be secret? When oversized becomes just right, when your legging pinch your waist, but the internet claims most people don't show yet, especially not for their first. But you just had to pop early, had to stretch my clothes to their limit and puff up my face and make me question if everyone just knew by looking at me immediately.

They didn't know by the way. But the fear remained.

Everyone talks about getting to eat for two, but absolutely nobody warns you that eating can be a curse. That suddenly that which you craves tastes like that which you hate. Sweet turns to sour, salty to spoiled, and you need mints after every meal because your breath feels as if you inhaled garbage with a sprinkling of yard clippings. And that can make you gag, which will make you throw up, which can make you gag, which will make you throw up, which can make you gag-

You get the picture.

They say you can hear things in there, so should I start worrying that I'm already influencing you? But I really can't help it because traffic is a bitch and the dog is being a little shithead and your father is getting on my last goddamn nerve. And I don't want to listen to classical music, I want to listen to rap and kpop and songs you should have no business hearing yet.

Just cover your ears for me.

I can't feel you yet, but I'm screwed when I do because the doctor says you can't sit still. I watch as you do backflips and twirls, ball those tiny fists up and punch, kick those little legs as far as as the space allows and arch your back in your confinement. Do you plan to wiggle this much out in the real world, because your preparation has severely limited my physical ability and I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up.

For the love of God, slow down already.

You, my little one are a parasite. You are sucking the life and spirit from my body AND my brain. You are hoarding my resources and begging for more until I cannot help but give in and gorge on clementine oranges and Cheez it snack packs. My thoughts are slipping, my words are sliding, I am expanding at an alarming rate, and they say it will only get worse, that you will force yourself from me violently and ravage me and exhaust me, and as you get older you will battle me and frustrate me and make me weep and yell and tear my hair out.

But oh how I cannot wait to meet you!