Coming Home: Dreaming of baby and all she'll be
Dear Baby, Last night I dreamed you were born. A girl with a thick head of dark hair, tiny and perfect. As I held you, the hospital room filled with grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors, all the people who love you already.
Last night I dreamed you were born. A girl with a thick head of dark hair, tiny and perfect. As I held you, the hospital room filled with grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors, all the people who love you already.
I opened my eyes to the dim light streaming through the tops of the autumn trees, stretched my arms above my head and felt you move inside my belly.
You're not born yet, Baby.
You have two more months to grow.
We have two more months to wait before we get to know you.
Baby, you're making my back ache and my ankles creak with the physical weight of your impending arrival. I walk around the house in your dad's flannel shirts, and he laughs at the sight of his wife groaning as I bend over to pick out a pan for supper or put my hands on my no-longer-existent hips to ask him what's so funny.
But he's not laughing because anything's funny. He's beaming. He can't help it. The thought of you growing healthy and strong out in this world seems to put actual light in his eyes.
I guess that's the twinkle they talk about.
Because you're such a beautiful mystery, a journey we only dreamed to travel. A wish we hold our breath for.
And now, after seven years of hoping, in two months when you draw your first breath in this world, we will finally be able to let ours go.
And still we're not ready. This house on the ranch we'll bring you home to is still only half finished. The basement is covered in sawdust as your dad scrambles to put up walls and wrap up loose ends for your arrival.
I have your crib and a chair to rock you still sitting in unopened boxes next to the tools in the garage.
Your nursery is still my office, with papers and guitars sharing the space with a box of your bottles and a dresser full of outfits and blankets your grammas and aunties already bought for you.
You'll learn that about us, Baby. That we we're not the most organized people, but we have big plans, and our big plans make messes. You'll find as you grow up in this house with us that the dishes will wait in the sink if the day is too beautiful to spend behind closed doors.
You'll find that some days we track in more dirt than we sweep away, and that our work and commitment out here on this ranch will keep us from long vacations and big fancy toys because we want to take care of this land so that you can grow up with mud on your boots and fresh air on your face while you learn all you're capable of.
But in the midst of all the challenge and heartbreak that you'll find in this life with us, I hope you'll find that I play more than I vacuum, sing more than I holler, hug more than I scold and through it all we can laugh, even on the messiest days.
And I hope you grow to like our cooking and that there might be some things we can teach you, because believe me, Baby, we know you have endless lessons to teach us.
And, Baby, I want you to know that I've loved your dad since I was much too young for things like that. And so you can imagine the fun we have picturing you and how our qualities might combine to make up the person you'll become. For all the time spent in my belly behind my guitar, he wonders if you'll come out singing. I worry you'll be wild like him, turning my hair gray with your affinity to drive too fast or climb too high.
Boy or girl? Blond hair? Brown eyes? For years we have dreamed you a thousand times, a thousand different ways, but none of it matters. You'll be perfectly flawed, perfectly imperfect, like us and unlike us in so many ways, the only person in this world we love before we've even been introduced.
And we can't wait to be introduced.
Jessie Veeder is a musician and writer living with her husband on a ranch near Watford City, N.D. Readers can reach her at firstname.lastname@example.org .