Thursday, March 28, 2013

Dear future Henry

Let this be a lesson that every up has its downs.  First, let me make this disclaimer: I am not complaining.  I have been so extremely fortunate to have had a very easy pregnancy, but these last couple of days have been not so fun.

1.  You got me in trouble at the doctor's office.  Apparently your little growth spurt tipped the scale in a way that my ob didn't like.  (Correction: my ob's PA; however, I don't necessarily want to propagate negative feelings about PA's since I am one).  In my professional opinion, the lecture wasn't necessary, but still...you got me in trouble.

2.  Heartburn with a vengeance.  I keep reading that pregnancy can give you heartburn, and since I had issues with this prior to pregnancy, I fully expected to single-handedly keep Tums in business...and then weeks and months went by, and NOTHING.  Holy moley, last night it reared it's ugly, and I mean ugly, head.  I have no idea what brought it on, but let's just say I understand why people go to the ER with heartburn thinking that they have a heart attack.

3.  ALLERGIES.  Again, I had these before you, Henry, but they have been AWFUL.  Add to the problem that I really can't take any medication that actually helps, so I spent the better part of last night tossing and turning in a snoring, congested fit of insomnia.

Ok, gripe session over, commence lesson of the week.

I have heard a lot of women say that the only reason they continue to get pregnant more than once is because the arrival of their new little one somehow wipes away all of the bad memories and experiences of the pregnancy so that you WANT to go through it again.  I'm sure things will get worse from here, and maybe I will be one of those women passing this little nugget of advice onto future preggos, but from where I sit at this moment, I think it's helpful to remember the bad (or at least the not-so-good).  There's not much in this world worth having that doesn't require sacrifice, and honestly, although bittersweet, the sacrifice makes the reward all the sweeter.  [For those that know me, I am a serious movie-quoter and I just got a flash back of the line in A League of Their Own where Tom Hanks tells Gina Davis, "The HARD makes it good."]

So Henry, I want you to know, that while this pregnancy has been easy for me by comparison, it has not been easy.  Every day, I make conscious decisions to put you and your needs before me and mine.  And I would gladly do it again and again, and will continue to make these sacrifices again and again for the rest of your life.

I am documenting this not so fun week, because someday, hopefully far in the future, you are going to hate me...or intensely dislike me, be embarrassed of me, or silently (or not so silently) catalog all of my faults and flaws.  Well, Henry, let this be a plea to add times like this to my "pro" column.  Despite all of the mistakes that I absolutely guarantee I will make, and all of the times I will disappoint you, please remember the sacrifices I made for you.  Remember that I sacrificed my pride, my vanity, my very body, for you for 40 weeks so that you could enter this world as a nurtured, whole human being.  I am praying that the patience and love that I displayed to you in your formative years will remind you to take it easy on me when we are pressing forward through the unpleasant journey that is adolescence.  And when you are standing in front of your mirror as a pimply-faced, hormonal teenager, cataloging all of your flaws, please remember that you are worth it.  You are worth all of the bad days, the good days, the terrible two's days, the days that you pee, poop, or vomit all over your mom.  And, as always, let me take this moment to point you towards your heavenly Father.  For as much as I love every single hair on your head, He created them.  He loves you infinitely more than I do, and I pray that you know Him early, that you know Him deeply, and that you follow Him always.

Ok, Henry, that's it for now.  I am officially locking this letter in a virtual time capsule of sorts that we call a blog.

Love,

Mom

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