Full disclosure, I’m now 28 weeks pregnant and feeling a little better, but not much.

Dear Canyon of the Daniel, or Daniel of the Canyon (No, the first one is better. That’s your real name, regardless of popular opinion).

As I sit and drink my allotted amount of coffee piled with whipped cream and cinnamon, wondering if I am overdoing it. I wonder if this is my last week hanging with you. I haven’t known you for long, you haven’t known me at all, but perhaps I am incorrect in my thinking and you’ve known me the entire time. After all, you are a parasite to my body, and you’ve done a splendid job making your presence known: Pukes in the morning, pukes in the evening, pukes at supper time, when pukes are with a bagel you can puke at any time. You’ve been a vociferous one, and I applaud you for that. 

Would I have it any other way? Maybe. It depends on how you would come out in the end. I think your bombastic way of announcing yourself means you have potential to scream through a megaphone without needing the equipment. I believe you will be the one to stop the madness, or start it, with your movements, keen notions, and extreme thirst for attention. Your lack of balance scares me, but it reminds me of myself. Your talents of making me cry at the shallowest of lyrics, to nail the high notes on Dolly’s “I Will Always Love You,” and your hunger for Shania, Celine, and Whitney make me feel comforted and safe. I will always love you, and I feel like you already know that. 

Will I do this again? Not a chance in hell. I would like my body back, I would like my life back. 

Will I continue this slew of tortuous months for you? Absolutely. In fact, if you swoop away in the darkness of night, chances are, I will talk myself into doing this again. But I won’t want to; I will fight myself tooth and nail not to do this again. It’s too much for me, and no one needs to see this happen again. It’s ugly. It’s pathetic. Frankly, it’s annoying to have to listen to my constant bitching. 

I need to part with my baby creation phase, but my goodness, I hope you make it. I hope I get it. I hope we get it. I hope you get it. You deserve it, my love. You have earned your place. 

I hope you find it better on the outside than the things you hear on the inside. It’s been relatively calm with you inside, stress-wise. I’ve managed to center myself more than I ever thought possible. I didn’t want to give you a raucous environment, you deserve better than the last one. I wanted to be a weightlifter while pregnant, but I realized you are lifting the weights for me, and I need not worry about reforming my habits once I get out of this pregnancy as I have built a strong foundation. 

I have traversed the deepest of places, and I have hiked, slithered, crawled, and thirsted through the canyon to get to you. 

You will be like a canyon – deep, full of crevices, mysterious, grandiose, yet delicate to minor changes in weather or atmosphere. You will feel more than you will prefer to, it’s not your fault, you are products of your father and me. We have enough sensitivity to fill a handle of whiskey and then some. You will hurt, probably more than I care to know about, but you will make something of it, because you will be reflective, sturdy (probably dirty too), and you will freak me out with your boy things. I am scared of you more than I thought I would be, I really wanted one of you early on and then got two tastes of feminism and became hooked. I think you will like the ones we made before you. I think you will lead them in unexpected ways, I think you will surprise them. 

The dogs know you are here, and they are waiting too. In the off chance you don’t make it, go find Scout and give her a big kiss. I’m sure you won’t have to look far. She’s probably waiting for you with a ball in her mouth. But selfishly, I hope you don’t see her before I do. She was mine first. 

I’m terrified to lose you, but somehow I can’t stop being excited about having you. I have this feeling you are going to make it, but I keep pretending like you won’t so I won’t be disappointed. I’ll be disappointed either way. It’s inevitable. 

I go to the bathroom twenty times a day, mostly to check for blood, but I haven’t seen any yet. 

I eat mainly breakfast burritos, buffalo chicken, pickle juice straight from the jar, tangy salsa, no cravings for sweets at all, except for the occasional ice cream cone or carrot cake. I love sub sandwiches, although I know they aren’t safe for me, somehow you convince me it’s alright. Actually, I just looked it up and Jimmy John’s sandwiches don’t have nitrites, which means I can eat them, and now I just want more. Stop it, sir. 

Carmella thinks you are the best. She says hello to you all the time, I’m sure you hear her and smile. She loves you, she wants you to be funny, so prepare for that. Colette likes to step on you to make sure you are paying attention. My theory is she is toughing you up for the outside world because of what she has been through. They both cherish you and loathe the fact you will steal their toys someday. They will teach you how to share, and you won’t have to share much if you get your own stuff. But we all share around here, so prepare yourself. 

Everyone is waiting, watching, biting fingernails, and counting down hours. I have never wanted time to go by so fast until I met you. I want these two weeks to be over so I know I might feel your kicks eventually. I ordered a heart monitor so I can listen to you without needing to wait for a dreaded doctor’s appointment. Sadly, they never cared about you from the start. You are a prehistoric baby who gets care from the deep unknown. I’ve had to fight to know who you are, and I’m okay with that. We made it work, we always will.

Love you, Canyon of the Daniel. As your great-grandmother said about her husband, your middle name, and the Daniel you originated from and seep the love of in a constant manner, “Your help is love,” and I believe you are here to help us all. 

Sincerely,
Your crazy ass mom who doesn’t know what she is doing but pretends she does and tries her damndest.