I do not talk much. I am thinking every day about your tiny body, about the delicate chemistry of your brain. I wonder what you will be like, about the depths of your psyche, the unknown places of your soul. I feel guilty, because I should be talking to you, should be laughing and singing and telling you stories so that you will remember my voice and will know that you are welcome here and will think that this is a cool place to live. All the books say so. They say I should talk. I want to. But most of the time all I can seem to do is cradle your temporary home in my two hands and try not to cry. I am quiet because I am afraid, and I don't want you to know. But I'm sure that you know. Your future flashes through my mind by day and my own past haunts my dreams by night. Carrying you this far is the most difficult and frightening thing I have ever done. Even steel has it's breaking point, and I am far less than that.
I'm trying. My own voice is loud in my ears, and startles me, alone in the car. Other times I rub my belly and send loving thoughts and hope that it counts for something. My biggest concern is mental health. I want him to be sound, smart, capable, courageous. I tell myself there's no reason why we shouldn't all three of us be diliriously happy, deliciously whole. But I worry still. Standing at a crossroads again, and not knowing where we will live, what we will do. I want Phil to be happy, and I want to be happy, and I hope we can achieve that at the same time, in the same life, together. I hope so for our baby's sake and for our own sakes, too. I need to do some research, get some things figured out, ease my anxiety somehow, self-reflect. But work saps my mental energy and by the time I get home I feel like there is little or nothing left. We need the money just to get by, for now and for later, but I am so miserable going to work every day, and there are still four months to go. I'm not sure what to do.
Will you send us some loving thoughts? It must count for something.