Two of Us - The Beatles
I’ve been reading articles about motherhood lately and they all seem to ascribe to motherhood as an archetype.
Are you the Tiger Mom? The Helicopter Mom? The Crunchy Granola Mom? The Wine Mom? The Cool Mom?
Please, Dear God, do not let me be a Cool Mom. Regina George was a waking nightmare and her little sister needed a social worker’s intervention like, ASAP.
I don’t think I’m going to fit into any of these boxes.
Am I going to be a little over-protective and helicoptery? Probably. Will is my first child and little kids have a tendency to hurt themselves pretty consistently. When I was a kid, I ran headfirst into a brick wall….twice.
Am I going be a Tiger Mom? Ehhh, probably not but I’m damn sure going to encourage Will to become a doctor.
Mostly so I can lord it over my mom - “HA! My son is a doctor! Your idiot daughter went to school for journalism! What a dummy!”
It’s an own goal I’m willing to score.
Am I going to be like my mom? I hope so - Mom is hilarious, takes care of everyone, feeds everyone and has yet to murder me despite the fact that I say things like the aforementioned to her.
I think, if anything, the Mom archetype I most likely fit would be Linda Belcher from Bob’s Burgers - enthusiastic, friendly, affectionate and way too into wordplay.
I have literally said this to my dogs - “Doc! Come here and let Mommy give you 47 kisses!”
And I’m kind of OK with that.
I want to be the kind of mom that my kid can talk to without fear or embarrassment. The kind of mom that makes Will rolls his eyes but laugh in spite of himself. I want to be the kind of mom who’ll show my affection through words, touch and through food. I want to be the kind of mom that serves as a safe and trusted harbor.
The kind of mom who loves her kid unconditionally because in the end, isn’t that the only thing that matters?
Hey Will. It’s Mom.
When I love something (craft gin, Justified, Bruce Springsteen…), I become its campaign manager. Everyone must know about it and everyone must love it with the same kind of evangelical fervor that I do.
This is why we have two Springsteen prints in our home and why, when Daddy isn’t paying attention, Mommy will put up a third in your nursery.
I’m going to be your campaign manager, kiddo.
You’re about the size of a postcard right now and I believe in you about as much I’ve ever believed in anything.
I don’t believe in fate or destiny so I can’t even begin to envision what your path in life holds, but I feel pretty secure in the knowledge that you are going to be loved with the kind of ferocity that I thought was only reserved for our dogs.
Your masi already has a list of books she wants to get you, your cousins are already talking about teaching you how to swim, you have so many aunts and uncles who might not share DNA with us but can’t wait to meet you and dude - let me tell you about your grandparents.
Nanima is already planning a ceremony for your first hair cut as well as your first solid food and Poppy cannot wait to meet his namesake. You’re going to spend a lot of time with Nanny and Poppy, Nanima and Papa and all of them are going spoil you rotten.
Buddy, you are so loved.
Check it out.
This is me and you (more like you-tero! Get it? Utero? You-tero? Mommy’s hilarious) when I was sixteen weeks pregnant with you.
Indiana is very annoyed that I am interrupting his post-morning walk nap.
And this was taken this past weekend - I’m eighteen weeks pregnant with you, not wearing any make-up and doing my least favorite chore ever - laundry.
Mommy looks like a Jelly Baby, she’s living through a pandemic and she can’t drink, eat soft cheeses, oozy egg yolks or even drink tonic water….and she is the happiest she has ever been because she knows that in a few short months, we’ll get to hang out face to face.
Can’t wait to give you 113 kisses and see your chunky little cannoli feet.
See you soon.
We love you xx
