Dear Fetus

I thought I’d start a “Dear Fetus” series because, who doesn’t love a pre-baby? Oh, that’s right, Liberals. Ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaa. I kid. I support a woman’s right to choose. This paragraph has gotten off track. Yoooups.

Dear Fetus,
I’ve been incubating your tiny body for 17 weeks. That means you’re the size of an apple right now. I’m not sure what that means due to the wide variety of apple sizes but, that’s apparently where we are in the world of fetus sizing.

I’ve had a few midwife appointments, but last week was amazing. I laid down on the couch and she said, “Ah. There’s your baby.” I felt such a surge of relief, like I might actually be actually pregnant for realsies. It’s incredible that life is so fragile and haphazard but also so stubborn. I felt you too with my hands and I feel you inside my ute, bee-bopping around in there.

I wonder things about you. Do you think? Are you bored? Do you need a book in there? Apparently, you’re just sleeping in there. That sounds pretty fucking nice. I, on the other hand, awaken forty million times a night to pee because of you. (Fetus’ first guilt trip. Awwwww.)

I’m so happy everyday that you’re in there. I hope that you continue to grow and thrive, let me know if you need anything else. Prolly more ice cream, yeah? We should be able to “see” you in a few weeks and look at your genitals. We’re pretty stoked about picking a name and your father needs to come to grips that you might not have a penis.
The Owner of the Uterus
P.S. Did I mention, I’m pregnant?

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