Disclosure

Dear Evan,

This is it. Doctors and charts and calendars tell me that we are one week away from meeting each other (though only you and God know the actual day you’ll let me kiss your face for the first time). For these past (almost) 40 weeks, you’ve been getting to know me through my muffled voice and the foods I eat and the way I laugh and the fact that your big brother spends a lot of time smooshing you by sitting on my lap.

The thing is, there’s a lot more to me than that, and not all of it is as nice as the calming wish-wish-wish of my heartbeat. Since I figure we should start off this lifelong journey on a note of honesty, I thought I would tell you — warn you? — about what you’ve signed up for by being my son. So here’s me coming clean about a few things:

1. I sing off-key. Like terribly, horribly, my-mother-must-have-bribed-the-middle-school-choir-director-because-that’s-the-only-way-I-could-have-gotten-on-those-risers bad. Right now my singing likely comes across to you as muffled hums that may actually sound soothing from where you are deep inside me, but trust me: You’re going to have to be tone deaf yourself or very forgiving (and overtired) in order for me to sing you to sleep. I can tell you that I manage to sing Kostyn to sleep, so take heart: It can happen. I’m just sayin’ .... the first time you hear your father sing to you, you’ll never listen to my version of “Jesus Loves Me” the same again.

2. I’m not one of those creative moms, the kind who make pancakes shaped like trucks and sew award-winning, one-of-a-kind Halloween costumes for their kids every year. I’ll try my hardest to inspire and entertain and educate you, but a lopsided heart-shaped PB&J sandwich is about the best you’re gonna get.
Luckily, your Aunt Kielynn-Marie (or “Aunt Ki-Ki”, as you’ll probably call her for the first few years) is exactly that kind of mom, and she lives less than 2 hours away. Seriously, the woman is the MacGyver of Motherhood, the type who can take an empty toilet paper roll, some dryer lint and a few orange slices and come up with an afternoon art project for toddlers that is both fun and educational. AND she’s busy baking a cousin for you that will be just four months younger than you, so I’m sure you’ll be fast friends and get to take advantage of all Mama MacGyver has to offer.

3. I’m a writer, and this will surely affect you. I write for money and I write for sanity, and I’m warning you right now that you have been and will be the subject of my prose from time to time. I’ll always keep your dignity and your heart and your future girlfriends in mind, but I cannot promise you that some of your embarrassing moments or silly things you say and do won’t ever make an appearance under my byline. But, I can promise you that I also will put in writing your genius and your specialness and your talents and everything about you that makes you amazing. In fact, I can’t wait to do just that.

4. I love being the mother of boys, but I’m not so good (yet!) at some of the finer points of construction and blocks-building and ramming cars into one another for fun. Don’t get me wrong, I will be your willing playmate and fellow engineer. But my best attempt is usually building a tall, sturdy tower. Lincoln Logs, MegaBlocks, Legos, doesn’t matter: I’m pretty much gonna build a tower. If you want to use all 80 MegaBlocks to make a giant robot or a fire-breathing dragon, you’ll have to wait until your father gets home from work because he’ll do all that and more. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

5. Finally, I’m scared of two things when it comes to you, sweet baby.
First, I'm scared that you’ll think I walk on water. That you’ll look at me with eyes that say I can do no wrong, that I hold the world on my shoulders and make your life amazing. I’m scared of this partly because I don’t know if it’s something I can pull off, even though I’ll want to with all my heart. But mostly I’m scared of it because I know no matter how hard I try, that impression of me won’t last and I dread the day I see that in your eyes ... the day I know that you know I’m not superhuman, but just human. That I’m not everything, but just something.
The other thing I’m scared of is that you’ll never think I’m superhuman in the first place.

Guess that’s enough for now. The rest you’ll have to learn as we go along, just as I will learn all about you. I can’t wait! See you soon, Little One.

Love,
Mama