Yesterday was another of my favorite moments with you. As your dad and I saw you on the ultrasound, I turned away and watched him. Not that seeing you on the ultrasound ever gets old for me, but it is becoming more of a routine. Your dad, on the other hand, hasn't watched you move on the ultrasound in months. When he saw you yesterday, it was the first time you really looked like a real person to him. He couldn't take his eyes off of you. Your face was like a real baby face, with round cheeks and your dad's lips. He saw himself in you and, I think, was stunned to visually see that you are part of him. Your daddy fell in love with you yesterday.
I don't think you're going to have to try very hard to wrap him around your little finger.
Today is beautiful and I wish that you were here to spend it with me. It's been raining all morning, and the skies are gray. All of the trees are a vivid green, washed clean, and the contrast of the leaves against the sky make me think that gray & green is a very under-appreciated color combination. It's nice and dark and cool inside, and I wish that you were snuggling on my chest and resting with me. It's my very favorite kind of day. I wonder, are you going to like cloudy, misty, drizzly days like I do? Or will you like the bright, sunshiney, warm days like your dad does?
I just finished what I believe to be one of the most significant loads of laundry I've ever done. Wanna know why? Because it has the clothes that I'll pack to take to the hospital for you and me. The first clothes you'll ever wear, and the clothes I'll wear when I meet you. Kinda silly, but I folded everything with more care than I normally do and then packed them in the backpack that I'll take with me to the hospital on Friday. That's when the doctor is going to try and turn you - I hope it doesn't hurt you too bad.
We're ready to meet you. Everyone is. And we're so very excited. I feel like there should be a parade or something in your honor. We love you, Evelyn, you already own our hearts.