It's nearly 11:00 the night before your arrival, and I can hardly wait to meet you. I've been dreaming about tomorrow for 35 weeks, and I still can't believe it's finally here.
I spent a few minutes tonight just sitting in your nursery, thinking about what you'll look like. Wondering how life will be with you here. My heart already feels so full it could burst, but I know that a supernatural thing will occur when I first hear your little cry. I know that you'll slide right into our hearts as if you've always been there, as if there was never a time that you weren't a part of our lives.
Your big sister is nearly overcome with excitement at the thought of you. She thinks you're her baby, and I don't have the heart to correct her. Mostly because I know she's going to do such a good job helping us take care of you. And you won't appreciate this at first, but you literally hit the daddy jackpot. Your dad is, without a doubt, the most attentive, selfless, patient, kind man on the planet, and we get to call him ours. (Plus, he's ridiculously good looking, smart, and athletic, so you've got a fairly good chance of landing a really fortunate mix of genes.)
I'm praying that I will be worthy of you, son. I don't worry about what you'll do in this world -- I know God has a special plan for your life, and I trust Him to draw you to His path. But I'm going to miss the mark as a parent. I'm going to apologize a million times for losing my cool. I'm going to yell when I should laugh. Forgive me, sweet boy. And remember that I will always root for you. I will always believe in you. I will always love you.
Know that I've treasured this time with you. I am overjoyed to meet you, but it's bittersweet. So much of me wants to keep you to myself, safe and warm. I want to feel your little kicks and jabs and rolls forever. But I'm ready to see your face. I'm ready to kiss the feet that have been keeping me up at night.
See you in the morning, sweet boy. I love you.
Love,
Mom
