I walk up the stairs, your new lamp in hand. Into the nursery, I set it on the side table. It looks cute. Nice purchase, I tell myself.
It’s late afternoon, around 5 o’clock. A bad time of day for me and my energy levels.
The rocker looks comfy. Real comfy. I decide to sit down.
I take the throw pillow and place it on the ottoman, lift my feet up with a grunt, cross them at the ankles.
I glance at my toes. They look like ten stuffed sausages glued to two featureless ghost-white cylinders, wiggling aimlessly. Sigh.
My head leans back. Damn this chair is comfortable. You’re going to love it, I think. I also think, I will never be able to get your grandfather out of it.
The glider starts to rock, thrown into motion by my imperceptible push. A few moments pass. I feel a doubled sense of movement. My belly is moving while I glide, I think.
I place my hand on my belly. It’s not moving. Hmm.
More gliding, more double movement. Wait. It’s not my belly that’s moving, it’s the contents of my belly that are moving. You are going for a ride, you in your watery little world! Neat.
Woah. The double movement is making me a little woozy. Your Mama and motion sickness have never been friends.
I stop gliding. You immediately react with a swift kick.
Omg. OMG! You liked it.
Glide glide, keep gliding! She likes it! She likes it! Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh.
Ok, about to barf, I must stop. I stop. You kick me again. I stay still. You kick again. I pat my belly near the top, a little to the right, as close to the place you just hit as I can get.
It’s ok, little one. That was fun, but Mama doesn’t want to puke.
You pause. I pause. You eventually shift your weight, my belly morphs into a lopsided shape, and you settle back in.
Ok, Mama, you say. I’ll go back to sleep now.
Our first conversation. It is now over.
Glide, stop, please keep going!, glide glide glide, stop, please keep going!, not now honey, alright.
Our first conversation. I wonder what will be our second.
And I make a mental note to have Daddy start sectioning out a corner of the backyard. You’re gonna need a swing set.
For more in the Dear Babygirl series: Letters to my Unborn Daughter