To Sherman

Dearest Sherman-child,

Hello, son! Mama here, just checking in to see how things are going. You're 34 weeks into your hot tub time, and I sure hope you're enjoying yourself in there. (Because, let's be honest. That would sort of make one of us.) You seem to enjoy flopping around, stretching out, and even the occasional swan dive on to what probably looks like a fun bouncy pool toy but is, in fact, my bladder. Don't worry your pretty little head, though, it's ok. Mama doesn't mind. Just keep squirming around all you want; it eases her worries.

Here's the thing. Carrying you around has turned out to be much harder than growing your older sister was. To make a long story short, it hurts. Like, mostly all the time. My pelvis and hips feel stiff and sore, the way I imagine old people feel as they shuffle along. (Maybe a walker with tennis balls on the bottom would help?) The effort of rearranging both of us in bed is the most painful thing I do all day long, and the fact that it takes like ten minutes to accomplish makes for a lot of unflattering grunting and groaning for your father to endure.

Also, and let's not go in to too much detail here, but sometimes I still throw up, and the problem with that is that my bladder is growing ever less competent to safely withstand the stress of all that yuking. Just saying.

Mama is trying very hard not to complain, though, and to be fair, there are all kinds of things I have to be grateful for this time around. Prilosec, for one. I cannot describe the fantastic, amazing joy it is to have relief from the horrible heartburn I experienced with your sister. Look at me, reclining in bed without a care in the world!

And speaking of bed, we have a new addition to our family (besides you, I mean.) Meet Allister, the black body pillow I scored from Target for under 10 bucks. He's basically a permanent resident on our bed these days, so Daddy thought we might as well go ahead and name him so he felt less like a stranger, and, you know, more a part of the family. I thought it might help Daddy feel a little less jealous, but somehow when Daddy curls up with me in his arms at night and discovers I'm already spooning with Allister, I get the sense there's still some burning resentment there. I tried telling Daddy that if he would like to hold my leg all night long in a way that relieves the pressure on my pelvis, I'd toss Allister down to the dog.

Amazingly, Allister has stayed.

I'm grateful for all kinds of other things, too. I'm grateful for the lack of snow since normally I slip on the ice at least once per year. I thought for sure my relaxed joints plus crazy center of gravity changes plus not being able to see my feet would make for a terrible equation ending in a pregnant girl splayed out all over the drive way, but so far, so good. And yes, I'm knocking on wood right now.

 I am also grateful for nine o'clock church services. Since I normally work all night Saturdays, it's about a billion times easier to just stay up and go to church than when we met at 11:00. (The teenager in me is completely shocked at this moment.) Let's not get started on the horror of the 1:00 (read: naptime!) block we endured most of the year. And yes, we have tried out all three of those options in the last 13 months. Our chapel remodel is finally complete, though, and that means I am also grateful that we no longer have to borrow a church that is, gasp!, a couple of miles away.

I am grateful for the little copper-haired ball of energy and happiness that is your big sister. One little "I yuv'a too, Mommy!" and I can't imagine a better thing in the world than filling a whole house with babies, lack of bladder control or not.

And oh, how thankful I am for your father. I'm sure there is something about him that isn't absolutely perfect in every way, but basically the only thing I can come up with at this point is that he doesn't like scrubbing the George Foreman grill any more than I do. While I feel like I've been a lot less crazy than I was with Bug (it's a girl thing, maybe) he has still dealt with a pregnant lady for 8 months with nary a complaint.

I am grateful for you. If all the waddling and hurting means you make it safely from being a Sherman wiggling around inside and happily flashing your man parts for all the world to see every time we take your picture to a soft, (probably) bald, delicious-smelling ball of actual baby with an actual name, then I will do it. I'd do it for 9 years rather than 9 months if I had to.

For the record, I'm still really glad I don't have to.

Love you to the moon,

Mama

P.S. We're still taking suggestions on what in the world to name you. If you have a preference, you'd better fill your mother with inspiration lickety-split. Otherwise, you might end up with Harold or something.