Hi love, it’s mom. It is December 14, 2017 and you’re not yet born. In fact, you don’t even exist. Not a single cell of you does. The in vitro didn’t happen yet, and I have no idea if it’ll work.
Maybe I’m writing this for nothing, maybe it won’t work at all. But I hope it will, and that hope keeps me going.
I can’t wait till you come.
We’ve got great plans with your mum.
She and I, we travel a lot, you know, camping and hiking in faraway places. We’ll take you with us when you’re there.
Your mum says she can’t wait to teach you how to build a fire. And I can’t wait to carry you on my back on one of our hikes and epic picnics (I hope you like fried tofu).
Your mum says she’s already browsed through several types of baby carriers.
Wait till we take you to Canada, and to see our friends in New Mexico, Wisconsin or Alaska. You’ll see lots of wildlife there. I’m sure you’ll love moose, but somehow I think you’ll be scared of chipmunks.
I’ve still got a few weeks before we start trying again.
A few weeks before the doctors come back, with the tests, the travels to Spain, and your mum doing the daily injections in my tummy because I am too scared to do them myself.
It’s been tough, and I am still sad and angry about it, but we’ve got to keep trying.
See, we’ve tried six times and it failed every time, hence the in vitro now. The in vitro will give us more chances, the doctors said.
And about Spain, you know… Your mum and I, we can’t get help from doctors at home, in France. Some people who make the laws in Paris, they don’t want us to. It’s complicated, it’s a grown-up thing. We don’t need to talk about it right now.
So I’m trying to give you, to give us, as many chances as I can. I’m trying to stop being sad and angry, and to just be hopeful and patient.
First, I’ve accepted to be put on a sick leave. Our family doctor (her name is S., you’ll love her!), she gave me a one-month leave, plus the Christmas school holidays!
She knows I am still sad from the six failures, and a bit depressed about it.
And also I am still a bit sick because of the hormones the doctors gave me for six months. It’s ok, I’m fine, don’t worry, but I really need to rest before I try having you again, the doctors said.
Boy, I didn’t imagine it’ll be so tough. All these women who struggle through medically-assisted procreation, they’re heroes! I’m proud your mum and I are trying.
I’m proud it didn’t break us apart, but made us even more in love. Hey — that’s even more love in stock for you, cupcake!
Also, I’ve started getting counseling. Her name’s D. and she is doing an amazing job. I told her about you, and she agrees that I needed the rest.
Plus, I told her about my job. When you’re born, I’ll probably be doing a different job.
Because, I’m doing a demanding job, you know, and it’s been years. I’m commuting a hundred miles to get there, and sometimes I answer emails at night.
I’m not happy with it anymore, and it took me time, but now I know that I am ready to move on and do something else.
I know I can be many things, and do many things.
I am just a bit scared to change, but that’s normal and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. That counsellor, D., she said something really important, that I think you’ll agree with. She said,
When it is possible, I think it’s important that a child sees their parents happy and doing something in life that they care about. I think it sends them an important message.”
Yes. I want you to see me happy. Your mum, she’s been there for me all those months. She’s supportive about me quitting my job. And about trying to have you, too!
Sometimes, it’s like she’s the one getting the injections, and trying to get pregnant. She’s a hero too, your mum, you know. I love her so very much, just as I love you so very much.
But hey, don’t freak out. I’ve read stuff, and I know that for parents like your mum and I, it is difficult not to have expectations when it’s been so difficult to have a child.
I promise that I’ll do my best not to be an overwhelming mom. I promise I’ll let you run around and I won’t freak out, or freak you out, if you fall. (Also, it’s ok if you don’t like fried tofu, I promise I won’t mind. You can have chicken.)
Also, do you mind that we’ve already thought about what name to give you? Your mum and I have been bickering about it, at tea time or while buying groceries. You’ll probably get an English name, is that ok? See, we’ll take you around a lot, and we don’t yet know if we’re gonna settle in North America. If you’re a boy, we thought James is nice, or Morgan. If you’re a girl, Morgan works too. There’s also June. I like June. Your mum says she’s not convinced.
Is it overwhelming that we’re planning this stuff already? I’m sorry. I guess we’re weak, like all parents.
I shouldn’t be telling you this because it’ll ruin the surprise, but when we were at the Grand Canyon last year, your mum bought a Geologic Time Scale, only as a 3D construction game. I told her not to buy stuff so early in the process, that she’d jinx it. But she said she thinks it’d bring us luck. Well, if the in vitro eventually works, I sure hope you like geology.
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