My mind is trying to wrap itself around the thought that you could literally be here any day and be a real part of our lives. Of course, it's not like you aren't a part of our lives already - I think I speak to you more on a daily basis than I might have otherwise because you are the one who keeps me company all day. You also determine a lot of my moods and overall feelings. More importantly, Katie talks about you all the time and gives you lots of hugs and kisses. We are all ready to meet you and see who you are.
I'm trying to just count on our surgery date as the day we will finally meet you. While I do have hope that you will show up just a bit before that because I am so very anxious to see you, something tells me you might be just enough of a little diva to now wait and take your time. And that's fine. A little annoying, but fine. It is so incredibly hard to wait for you, though. I feel like I have this huge present wrapped and sitting in the middle of the room and that someone keeps telling me, "Maybe you can open it today...Nope - let's wait just a bit longer." The waiting is so hard because I feel like we've been waiting for you for years; in retrospect, we have been. We have been waiting for your arrival for three years now and it's amazing we are so close.
You are going to be one of the most loved and precious children to ever grace the face of this planet. After miscarriages, treatments, shots, tests, preterm labor, bedrest, pain and discomfort, I can honestly say that midnight and 4am feedings will be a real treat. Earaches will be a minor inconvenience. Even acid reflux or colic will be greeted with tolerance and acceptance because listening to you cry will simply be a miracle. Of course, we pray with all of our hearts that you will be happy and healthy and very rarely sick or uncomfortable, but I just want you to know that nothing you can do once you are out here with us will affect the joy and pleasure of getting to spend time with you (those of you who are thinking, "Just wait and see..." right now clearly underestimate the effort it has taken to get to this point).
I can't wait to sit with you in your room and listen to music with you. To sing to you and to feel the softness of your newborn cheek. A newborn is softer than anything in the world and I know that I'm going to spend hours just rubbing your hand or your cheek. I can't wait to feel you snuggle deeply against my chest as you relax or to listen to the humongous burps that will erupt out of your teeny tiny body. If you continue to act as you have been, I will smile at your frequent bouts of hiccups that wrack your body several times a day and at the little look of confusion on your face as you try to figure out where you are and what is going on.
I want to hold you and kiss you. I want to talk to you right here and let you know how loved and cherished you are. I can't wait for the moment that we can introduce you to everyone and tell them the name you picked out for yourself. Your sister watches TV and picks out all the things she wishes we could get for her baby sister. She's been asking a lot of questions about you lately. She wants to know what you will look like and whether you will have hair and how much you will cry. I don't know, but I can't wait to find out. I bet you'll be alert and nosy just like your sister was. Your sister cannot wait to hold you, feed you, and love you - and neither can we.
Each day, I wait with my breath half held hoping that this might be it and that you might decide to come and visit us in person. I know I can't rush you, but I just want you to know just how anxious we are and how much love there is right here waiting for you.