Letter to the Captain

Dear Captain Picard,

You’re reallllly hurting me right now—I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but your head is directly under my right boob. How does that work? Um, I don’t know if you’ve just somehow overlooked them, but there are ribs and lungs in that general area and you are really making it hard for your mom to breathe. Not to mention the fact that it looks like a softball is trying to make its way through my skin. You have a really big head, no offense.

By the by, little Bean, your head is supposed to be down. Way down. That, sunshine, is how most babies come out--Trust me on this one. Ass first is not going to cut it. It’s really not so bad, being upside down, I promise. And the sooner you flip, the sooner you can escape from your current squashy home. I’m not sure why you’re being so stubborn, but you really should get movin’ so that you can come out naturally, and save mommy from major abdominal surgery. If you don't turn this week, I'm going to have to go to extreme measures to coerce you, among them laying upside down on an ironing board (do you really want to put me through that?) or acupuncture (don't force me to go all new-agey on you). If worse comes to worse, we may have to go back to the creepy chiropractor. You know the one who talked about "Hostel" whilst x-raying me. Yeah. And the one who was all sweaty and had a dirty lab coat with a hole in the pocket. Come on, baby, please don't make me go back to Captain Crazy. I'll give you some time to think it over...

Also, although I’m sure you’re most unaware, you have recently aided in the total decimation of my image in front of your daddums. Until two nights ago, I’ve never (and I mean never) farted in front of your father. Well, consider that record broken. And loudly. And often. Fortunately he’s a good sport about the whole thing, although I was, and continue to be, mortified. Although, I will admit that you have helped us become intimate in ways I would have never imagined. Between the first invasive ultrasound, peeing in my pants, gastrointestinal difficulty, and emotional upheaval—well, I’d say our relationship has grown, thanks to you!

Your daddy and I are really looking forward to finally meeting you, although I think your dad’s getting a little more anxious here lately. Last night we were about to go to sleep and he said to me, all wild-eyed, “I’m nervous.” Yeah. Me too. As excited as we are to see your sweet face, you should really stay in a while longer. We still need to buy a chair.

Well, this letter is probably a little long, considering you're illiterate and all, so I’ll bring it to a close. I hope you’re doing ok in there. From the size of my belly, you’ve really taken our "please grow" request to heart. Keep it up, spaghettio. We love you.

-Mom

PS— Wait at least 10 years before you ask Daddy for a dog. Seriously.