Morrison and I now have five months of scattered doctors appointments, blood draws, ultrasounds and measurements, before the Young Sir decides to live on Earth, instead of in our mind’s eye, or my uterus. Each one of these appointments makes me panic completely. A few days before, I start convincing myself that I have listeria or that I was somehow exposed to Accutane or that I slept walk into a hot tub and sat there for five yours. By the morning of the appointment, I am panicking completely. Morrison, on the other hand, wakes up excited to see what our boy has morphed into. Yesterday, as we drove to our appointment:
Me: I just want him to be okay.
Morrison: He’ll be okay! If he had an extra limb, that’d be cool.
Me: WHAT? NO!
Morrison: But what if he had an extra limb and it worked, and he was like an X-Men?
Me: I don’t want our son to be an X-men.
Morrison: Okay, but. That’d be cool.
We didn’t actually get to see him yesterday, just heard his heartbeat that sounded like the best dorm room party we’d ever been to. At this point, I think we love this kid no matter what. We love him if he has ears growing out of his nose. If he has a butt growing out of his fingers. IF HE HAS KNIVES GROWING OUT OF HIS HANDS.