To my Darling Fetus,

Here's the thing, kid.
A romantic I am not.
I laughed in the face of the first boy who tried to kiss me. 
I refuse to hold hands in public.
The day I have to have "the talk" with you will probably also be the day I hire a live-in therapist.
Emotions are not my strongpoint, is what I'm trying to tell you.

I hear my friends talking about their children in such a flowery and lovely way that I just assumed it was another chemical side effect of pregnancy, like an aversion to poisonous smells or the desire to kill everyone in the car in front of you.  I thought that once I saw your little blurb on the ultrasound I would undergo some sort of magical transformation that made me both eloquent and maternal.

Apparently, that's not really how this whole thing happens.  Because as it stands, I'm 20 weeks and 6 days into this little (enormous) adventure, and I still feel like I'm at square one.  For me, square one involves a lot of panicking - about anything, really.  Anything I can grab onto.  Did you know that your due date is during the most active month of hurricane season, for instance?  Right.  Your mom is a crazy person.  And probably, if I had to guess, not the endearing kind of crazy that they base television sitcoms off of.  It's more like the kind of crazy that inspired sedatives.

And can we talk about the word "mom" for a second?  My mom is mom.  I am not a mom.  I still don't know how to buy a properly fitting bra for myself, for Christ's sake. I have no idea how to take care of myself. If I didn't have a boyfriend who liked to sit near me sometimes, I would probably not shower that often.  How am I going to mother you?  There are a lot of awesome moms in my family, and among my circle of friends. I don't think you understand the kind of pressure I'm under here.

The truth is, underneath all of my trademark panic attacks , I'm excited to meet you.  At the very least, I'm assuming that having you out here in the real world will squash my inexplicable craving for orange chicken (really, dude?).  And I guess, as wildly unprepared as I feel for this whole thing, I think it's going to be pretty awesome.  I think that you're going to be pretty awesome. 

When I really think about it, I was sort of made to be somebody's mama.  My diet already consists almost entirely of crackers and juice, and dance parties happen to be my favorite form of exercise.  Also, I've already read all the children's books we've been stocking up on.  Beverly Cleary is our favorite, I don't care if you're a boy.

I am so, so scared of screwing this up.  But I really think it's going to be okay.  We've got a pretty good family.  Even from 4,000 miles away, I think you'll be able to feel how much they love you.  I love you too, of course, and though I have a little trouble saying it out loud in the direction of my uterus, I imagine that once you're here I'll have trouble stopping.

So, here's to us, Fetus.  Let the wild rompus start.

PS -  For the love of God, open your little prude legs at the ultrasound next week.  Calling you Fetus is bordering on inappropriate at this stage in the game.