Dear Miss Boo,

Okay, so I’m going to get a lot of flack for writing you a post right now because you don’t have a birthday, or as your eldest brother (whom I’m sure you will soon be coerced into addressing as JJ the Eldest, as opposed to you who will be JJ the Youngest, because he’s determined that you should share a birthday *and* a name.  That, or your name should be House – not after the TV show, just “House”) would say, “The baby’s zero!”  And I didn’t write to your brothers until they were born, or thereafter, but you know what?  I’m whipping out the ol’ parental card of “They’ll/You’ll Just Have to Deal” and “Not Everything is Fair”.  Because I can.

I figured I should clear up some details, just so I don’t start scarring your poor little psyche at the tender age of minus 18ish weeks.  We love you.  We want to welcome you into the family.  We’re excited about your arrival!  And just because we didn’t tell people about your Booness until we found out your gender does not mean we were in denial or didn’t want you or only wanted a certain gender.  Really, the question of, “So, you’re trying for a girl?” is fairly repulsive to me, and I already had so many other reasons to be sick to my stomach (like eating, or not eating, or driving, or walking, or breathing).

Really, it’s all my fault.  See, you can already start playing the “It’s All My Mother’s Fault” card, because *that* is your right, your heritage.  The fact that I told my mom that I had the title of my first book all worked out (“My Mother’s Southern and Other Reasons I Am the Way I Am”) in high school should’ve been a bit of foreshadowing for me (enter foreboding music).  Your father probably would’ve told everyone in church when I casually showed him the positive pregnancy test I’d been carrying around in my pocket (don’t worry:  it wasn’t the kind where you pee on the stick – it was more hygenically containable):  I didn’t know when or how to tell him, so before open worship seemed as good a time as any.

I felt the same about when to tell everyone else.  Your father would ask, “Now?”  My response, “Enh.”  “We have ultrasound pictures.”  ‘Yeah, but … something could still happen.”  “We’ve had two appointments.”  “Yeah, but I’m not showing *that* much.”  “We now know the gender, and your gut is protruding, and JJ knows, and we have to tell people sometime.”  “Yeah, well, Sami Brady was able to have a baby while she was in protective custody, and nobody knew, so I could just hang out most of the summer at home ….”

See, I just don’t deal with the attention well.  And then we found out you were a girl, which brought down these overwhelming emotions so totally different from each other, like trying to decide what to eat while at Epcot:  am I feeling Japan, or Morrocco?  Canada, or Sweden?  Oooh:  Mickey Mouse Shaped Ice Cream Cones!  I was excited!  I was freaked!  I was going to have pink in my house!  I have to learn how to do hair!  I’m going to deal with bloomers and patent leather shoes! (which my Northern friends will not understand why those elements will have to be in my house.  But they also give quizzical looks when I talk about the War of Northern Aggression).  I’m going to have to throw a wedding someday instead of just Rehersal Dinners!

But you don’t deal well with attention, either, since we had a longer-than-usual ultrasound due to the fact that you were still until you sensed that measurements were taking place.  Then, “Retreat!  Retreat!”  It’s like you thought Dr. Tami’s “got big fangs!”  And when she went to get your profile shot?  Well, after five to seven minutes of poking and prodding, she gave up:   “Well, her face is smashed into your placenta, and she’s wedged her head as far as she can into your pubic bone:  the profile shot is not happening.”  Sigh.  Followed up with, “That’s my girl!”  Which we really know you’re a girl, because we have about five beautiful patootie shots of you since that was your way of expressing your thoughts of the ultrasound experience.

You also proceeded to let me know how much you enjoyed the experience by kicking me.  For over 24 hours.  Which a few of those were spent on a teeny tiny airplane.  Helpful.

Your dad posted your pictures online, and I made an enigmatic comment on Facebook, because that’s my hangout of choice at the moment.  With your eldest brother, I just left an ultrasound picture out on the front desk of the office I worked at with the comment, “By Hubby & Dren”, which there were other pregnant people in the office, so folks assumed it was their picture.  With Abe, the cat kinda got taken out of the bag by a friend, but for the most part we announced to folks (including your extended family) by making a video of clips of JJ with “Coming Attractions” and pics of your compliantly-ultrasounded brother at the end.  And when we posted stuff, we were in the middle of the U.S.:  not so much close to home.  So I guess I did leave and come back home “pregnant.”  If only closer to the end …

We are excited for you to come meet us, darling daughter:  to see your face, to hold your fingers, to play “This little piggy”.  We’re excited to introduce you to our community who is SO happy to meet you.  And we’re loving that we get to know you.  But know:  your father will have a camera, and wireless access, in the hospital:  things will be documented.  So get ready to put on the cute face, otherwise you *will* have butt shots posted online for all to see, including high school friends (God bless the WayBack Machine). 

I love you, Baby Boo.

~Ma

Boo Blatherings, Mama Musings