Dear Sweet Girl,
You are now in your 23rd week.
Each night, once I manage to stop and put my feet up, I put some music on for us both and get to work on the never-ending pile of photos that need editing. That is when you come alive – you kick and squirm, reminding me that you are there and that you are well. It would seem your favourite song is Eric Whitacre’s Seal Lullaby. Daddy doesn’t know how he feels about you being a Whitacre fan, but says that he supposes it’s okay.
A few weeks ago, I found out that your exit is blocked…completely. I am so thankful for modern medicine as 100 years ago, this would have been a death sentence for you and me but this day in age, it just means that they will probably have to cut you out. It still scares me – our risks have increased substantially, but what matters right now, is that you seem to be happy and healthy, cozied up inside me.
I am tired, and probably try to do too much, but other than that, I feel good. You seem to want cinnamon…all the time. I am hoping this is not because of wonky blood sugar levels but I wouldn’t be surprised as four o’clock hits each day and I plummet. In a couple weeks, I will have to drink that wretched orange drink and can find out for sure.
Until then, it’s just you and me, babe…and a big bowl of spiced apple sauce.
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