Dear baby

I hadn’t known that the tryouts for the Olympic gymnastics team were held in my uterus. You taught me that. You are still teaching me things. At six months you muttered your first word not fully understood by human ears, mustering all the strength gained from a few mitotic divisions and a bit of wizardry. But I couldn’t hear you. Silly, no one can hear you underwater! Since then I’ve learned how persistent you were when you opted for kicking and somersaults, as if to say, “hey mama! Look over here! I’m alive and so are you!” Kid, I do admit that your nine month stay was awkward at first, not because you didn’t pay rent during those months, but because I’m new to this sort of this thing. I’m afraid that if I’m not a good mom, you’ll grow up and write a spin-off show called “How I Met my Mother” and instead of the show being a comedy, it will reveal the dramatized tragedy of your deficient life as an unborn love child.

Sorry if awkward will be the theme of your upbringing. Screw nurturing love or other Martha Stewart mottos. When you take your first steps on the rug at home, I will be wobbling alongside of you trying to be the good mother that learns how to pack delicious lunches that are both homey and pretentious enough to get all the kids in your class, their mothers, and their dogs begging for the recipe. I’ll try to refrain from 3 am Google searches consisting of “what’s wrong with my baby” or restrict my time watching shows like Dr. Phil or Global News that only increase paranoia. But I can’t promise much.

I won’t be one of those moms that buy you dolls. I’m sorry, I just can’t. Partly because they sort of scare me, but mostly because I want you to grow up looking for your own kind of swag. Barbie’s got her thing going on, but baby, you are so much more beautiful and I want you to discover that on your own. Sometimes you’ll need to remind me that I’m beautiful too, and though I don’t have MILF attributes yet, honey, that’s what botox is for.

Sorry, sweetie (is it okay if I call you that?), if I don’t know as much as a should. Less than two decades separate me and you, yep, that’s only Justin Bieber of the 2000s and the Spice girls of the 90s, so it’s okay if you don’t want to call me mom until I get a bit wiser. I have a lot to learn because I’m still a kid too. You will just have to bear with me when I sign your permission forms, forced to reluctantly give the e-mail I made in grade 9, atomic_kittens35@hotmail.com. I’m sorry in advance if I wake you up from the slashing of fruit from playing fruitninja late into the night. These are just a few reasons why Forever 21 does not have a maternity section.

This isn’t an apology letter, because I don’t think I can’t offer anything that any other mom can’t. I love you and you love me, and maybe this is naïve but I really think this could work if you give me a chance.

P.S  you never paid rent for those nine months, but when I grow old, you are not sending me to a retirement home.