Dear Mini,
I’m beginning to wonder if I need to cut the caffeine, for
your sake.
I might I have a novice’s viewpoint of what a baby in utero
is capable of, but I couldn’t help but marvel at how wriggly you were during
your last ultrasound. It’s thrilling to
watch your healthy form swim around like a well-fed goldfish in my little bowl,
which is what you reminded me of during your “gender reveal” session during
week fifteen. But when I saw you five
days ago, you looked like Animal in the throes of one of his Muppet Show drum
solos. What in the name of Keith Moon is
going on in there, young lady?!
“Baby eat drums!!!!”
Since I have a single cup of coffee every morning in order
to shake the morning bats from my mental belfry, I know that I must’ve had my daily dose that Thursday as I rolled down
the interstate listening to National Public Radio (wow…. I just realized how
Massachusetts that sounds). I know what
the bean juice does to me, so it seemed
plausible that a mainline of Classic Foldger’s may very well have had
everything to do with your enthusiastic acrobatics.
Shortly after ingesting
the morning grog, I was belly-up on the technician’s table, watching you
perform your one-baby circus inside me.
I was equally shocked and impressed with the nice lady wielding the ultrasound
wand who was able to pin you in your sitting-on-a-Xerox-machine pose long
enough to confirm your girlhood. Getting
the unborn to pause in one place long enough to steal a snapshot of their
nether regions must be one of those rare and remarkable skills like handling
feral cats (that’s mine!) or counter-intimidating large, greasy men with ‘roid
rage (you’d be entertained how good at that your daddy was when he worked as
amusement park management. It’s like
those kind of idiots are just drawn to water slides!). Knowing that I had kept my carb and sugar
intake at nearly nil in preparation for my glucose test, I knew it couldn’t
have been any other fast-acting substance that sent you tumbling. Either I’m being a fretty Francis, or coffee
makes you vibrate on a different wavelength and see through time.
I consider myself fairly level-headed when it comes to my
diet. I’m adventurous and very
appreciative of all different kinds of consumables. I try not to overdo anything, even the
healthy stuff. I believe in whole wheat
bread and croissants, local honey and chocolate. I eat to feed
my body, but I occasionally eat just
to feed my soul, and I’m content with that philosophy and its effects. I find that if my diet is comprised of
wholesome items most of the time, then that’s what I’ll be hungry for. It’s been the same story for me during your pregnancy. I haven’t tried to kill anybody for a last
doughnut or fought the urge to eat gravel from the driveway. I haven’t really craved much of anything specific to the point of desperation. I’ve missed the comfort that items like
coffee and ice cream used to provide, though, and since I’ve hit that magical
point in our second trimester where everything has ceased to taste like the
back end of a pencil, I’ve been gleefully rediscovering my old favorites.
So this brings me back to coffee. I love the way it smells. I love the way it tastes. I love the way it warms my hands when I wrap
my fingers through the mug handle. I even love that it’s nearly considered a
character in my favorite television show of all time, Twin Peaks:
“How do you like your coffee?”
“Black as midnight on a moonless night.”
“Prrrrret-ty black!”
I know what the doctors say:
In moderation, it’s fine.
I know what my body says:
Hit me, or I’ll wallop you with an
eye-crossing headache.
But what do you say,
my little love? Are you naturally
predisposed to high levels of activity at this point in your development anyway, or is it the stuff that’s in my
cup that’s making you jive like James Brown?
“I feel….WIRED! UNHH!”
Love,
Your ever-alert mother
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