Hey, baby. You’re the size of a turnip this seventeenth week. You can hear my voice and your bones are hardening. A few more weeks and you’re in the clear, you’re “viable”. You can do it, you’re stubborn like your hot Mom. Both Dad and I have been having dreams about you. Mine was that I discovered there was a girl in there, hanging out in my womb. Dad’s was that he held you up in his hands; you were just a small thing with thick dark hair like your Om Justin. He saw you as a girl, too. It’s interesting how our dreams align. It doesn’t matter to us which gender you are, just show up healthy. Cute would be a plus. I don’t do f'ugly.
I wonder if you’ll like soy nog. I’ve been sucking it back like it’s going out of style.
Dad went to a class yesterday to learn about cloth diapering. He was pretty excited about it, and had a good time. I am NOT putting cheap-ass plastic on my Hootoo, only to have it live forever in a wasteland.
Tomorrow is Remembrance Day. Someday, I’ll tell you all about your great-grandfathers in World War II, and show you photos.
I love you, sweet thing. See you soon.
xo
Yo Mama
