Today you've been in my belly for 16 weeks. Well, in truth it's actually 14 weeks since the doctors count these things all weird, but regardless I'm 16 weeks pregnant and you're officially the size of an avocado. And you're a California avocado, which makes you the most delicious of all the avocados. I can't wait to gobble you up, but unfortunately I have to wait 24 more weeks. 40 minus 16 is 24, right? Remember that I asked that question before you think of coming to me to help with your math homework. That will be daddy's domain.
You and I spent the last few weeks traveling in Israel without daddy because he has to work. When I got back a few nights ago, he looked a little disappointed when he saw me. I asked him what was wrong, and he pouted before answering that he though my belly would be bigger by now. Um, I think it's plenty big, thank you very much. And I'm pretty sure all the clothes that no longer come anywhere close to fitting me would agree. As soon as we got home from the airport, daddy turned me sideways and proceeded to examine me from all angles. When we went to bed, he slept with his hand cradling you all night.
I was hoping today would be the day we would go and find out your gender, but daddy ended up having a deposition at work that won't be out until well after the doctor's office is closed. I suggested going by myself and then calling him with the news, but, well, that didn't fly.
Last night I dreamt I was driving in the snow, and drove over some black ice, spinning out of control. My first instinct was fear for my life, and then I remembered I was pregnant and was terrified for you. I felt like a horrible mother, that my first thought was about me and not you, and the guilt woke me right up. You'll quickly learn that this guilt thing is a pretty big part of me. But I can't help it, I'm Jewish, it's in my blood. As it will be in yours. I had a hard time going back to sleep, and couldn't shake the horrible feeling that I selfishly thought of myself before I thought of you. I suppose it's the role I'm used to playing. For the last 26 years, your grandma and grandpa have always put me before themselves in everything that they do; in every choice that they make. I have been the selfish child, and they have been the selfless parents. I always thought that when the time came for me to have you, I would effortlessly morph into the selfless parent role that the selfish part of me would magically disappear, and that I would automatically think of you before me by pure instinct. But that dream left me terrified that I might not. What if this selfless impulse, this inclination that I consider to be the crux of good parenting, isn't as natural for me as it was for them?