I cannot wait for you. It is a trite sentiment, but it is more true than it has ever been for any other mother on earth. I promise.
I cannot wait to see your smile or your tiny fingers. I want to see just how tiny the toenails on your pinky toes are when you are born. I think that yours will be the smallest, most interesting fingers on the planet.
I cannot wait to see your eyes. It’s most likely that they are brown, but I wonder if they might be blue like your daddy’s. I selfishly hope they are, because I always wished my eyes were blue and want to see what it would look like.
I cannot wait for the sleepless nights spent helping you. Life is rough, and I just hope I can make your debut go well for you.
I cannot wait for the first steps or the first words. Since I’m thinking of how much you will teach me, I’m dying for the words to start.
I cannot wait to hold you. I think that if I get to spend one second of my life knowing that you are more happy because I am near you, all of this will be worth it.
I cannot wait for your ABC’s. I have no idea how to teach a baby, Evie. I’m so sorry you get a novice. But I love language, and I hope you do, too. If I can pass an ounce of my love for these letters to you, it will be worth hundreds of hours with flashcards. Or fingerpaint. Or neon signs. Or a waterslide in the shapes of letters. Whatever it takes; I’m not super partial.
I cannot wait to take you swimming, because swimming is one of the biggest joys in my life and I want to share it with you. I very much hope you like the beach, so we can swim the Great Lakes and be two children together for a while.
I cannot wait for the curls. I have zero doubt that your hair is curly and brown. Genetically speaking, it’s almost a guarantee. Apologies in advance, because your life is 10 percent harder than the average human’s due to this.
I cannot wait to take you to beautiful places and see your eyes light up when you see big, beautiful things. I want to show you the lakes and the beautiful flowers my daddy showed to me. I want to show you the tallest buildings in all the cities we go to. I want to show you a soccer field in the early, early morning. I want to show you the places in the woods that take my breath away. I want to show you a beautiful horse and see if you marvel at it like I do. I want to show you a cicada’s skin, left behind on a pine tree. It’s okay if you don’t like that one. I will understand. Sort of.
I cannot wait to give you food to make your eyes light up and your heart happy. I wonder what our family’s food will mean to you—if it’s anything like my mom’s cooking means to me, or something totally different. I will give you a bright blue popsicle sometimes. I will give you chocolate. I will give you oranges. And lots of other healthy things too, but you will learn fast about chocolate, because I adore you and I hope we share a love of chocolate.
I cannot wait to tell you how much of a miracle you are. Again, trite. But, Evelyn, you don’t know what it feels like to have real person crafted by God through your body. I’m sure someday you will understand this, but until then, darling, you have no idea just how fearfully and wonderfully you are made. I will tell you every day.
I cannot wait to see your dad take care of you. I just want to see the two of you together. I think it’s the most beautiful thing on earth, and I’m dying to see. Ever since we found out you were coming, it has felt like something huge is missing. We can’t wait for you to come out so we can start living the life we can only imagine right now.