I'm in my third trimester; that means I'll meet you soon. You really like to move around when it's quiet and I'm trying to sleep. I think you are lulled by the sounds of the day and when they die down, you decide it's time to start the party again.
I've been thinking a lot about what I hope for you in life. My hopes for you are very simple: I want you to know Jesus. I want you to have joy. I want you to take after your kind dad, and I want you to be happy. I don't so much mind if you are successful or handsome. I would love for you to learn from your mistakes early on, but if you're anything like me, then you'll probably have to make the same ones over and over until you learn. I will pray--then--for you to have a resilient and teachable spirit about you.
I look at your ultrasound photos every day. People tell me I will be surprised at how much they really do look like you. If that's true, then you already have your dad's nose and you like to sleep with your hands up by your face like my mom says I did when I was a baby.
I started a journal for you. This post will go in it. My mom did this for me and gave it to me the day before I married your dad. I'm not sure that you'll treasure it the same way I did, because, well...you're a boy, and when you're old enough to get married, you might not be as sappy as I am now. That's OK.
I get nervous about raising a young man. Your dad tells me, "That's why God's giving him a mom and a dad." Your dad is excited to help you become a man.
We have a name for you. Your dad chose it. We love what it means, because it's exactly what we've been praying for you all this time. We call you your name, so I think you'll recognize it when we meet you.
I can't wait to meet you, son. I love you very much, and I can't believe how big you already are. Right now, for example, you have a foot in my right rib, and you absolutely will not move it. I push your foot out and you move it right back. That's OK. I'm glad you're cozy in there.