Dear baby,

Today I am ten weeks and three days pregnant. You are the size of a strawberry and boy oh boy are you keeping things interesting in my body. I crave pineapple constantly. And biscuits. But the biscuits can’t be made by your baby-daddy, oh no. They HAVE to be from Bojangles. And the pineapple HAS to be just ripe enough but not too ripe. It’s January, baby. That’s hard to come by. Also. I smell EVERYTHING. A LOT.

Sweet, merciful baby. I need to ask you something. I was wondering if maybe, just maybe, you would stop making me throw up? See… I have been sick, non-stop, since the day after Christmas. Today is the 26th of January. That’s a month, sweet baby. I have thrown up, almost every day, for a month.

When I’m not nauseous…I am sleeping. When I’m not barfing, I’m about to.We are so excited for you, sweet strawberry baby. And I want to start making you little knitted booties. I want to start sewing you blankets and (wonky!) costumes on my sewing machine. I want to make you little bags and compartments to carry all of your favorite things in! I’d really like it, sweet baby, if you would just calm down enough to let me go outside… and see people! When I see people I can start telling them, “We’re having a strawberry! Isn’t that the best news?” And they’ll be so happy. Everyone will be happy and you will have a whole cheerleading team waiting for you to arrive this summer! My little summer strawberry baby. In booties with the bag.

Your baby daddy is being so wonderful, sweet strawberry. He works hard so that I can take time off from being a functioning human in order to keep you safe and secure in my grumbling, nauseous belly. But he is lonely, baby! And no matter what he says, I think he’s getting a little tired of holding my hair back while I cry and apologize and barf everywhere. (I don’t know why I apologize but I always do…?)

He wants to make you a crib, you know. He is a perfectionist so he probably needs to get started, right? It’s gonna take time to make a sweet strawberry crib that will be as perfect as you are?

Just consider it? Won’t you, sweet, merciful, summer strawberry baby?

More soon. Minus the puking. I hope.