Life in the womb grows more fascinating every day. I seem to have developed
appendages with which I can prod Mama’s insides. I believe she feels my movements
though I have not grown large enough for my movements to reverberate enough
them. If my size continues to increase at its recent rate, that should change
in a matter of weeks. Each day I become more aware, and each day I endeavor to
stretch my limits a little further, both mental and physical. Each day I understand
a little more when he talks to me and when he sings to me. And each day I sense
Mama’s growing beauty a little more deeply.
Mama told me last week of a holiday known as Father’s Day. It is observed
annually to celebrate fatherhood (for some reason, I want to add "in a hostile
world"). Since Daddy has devoted so much time to me even before my birth, I
thought it only right that I do something for him. It proved more difficult
than I imagined to make a card and buy a gift within the confines of my current
dwelling, but Mama bought a book, made a card (the image in this post—Curt),
and wrote a note for me. She is certainly beginning to understand me more as
Until recently, Mama seemed to have difficulty thinking of me as an actual
child with a personality and will. My movements have endeared me to her, thankfully,
and she has even given me a nickname. She and Daddy both now refer to me as
‘Tater, which is a diminutive form of the more clinical One Who
Mama says she looks forward to the day when she can call me Tater Tot,
of my great-grandparents has already made plans to call me Sweet
I suppose grownups hold a fairly low opinion of a preborn child’s knowledge,
and understandably so. While it is true that I lack years of life experience
and formal education, I am not wholly ignorant in all areas. For instance,
day that Mama loves me. He scarcely needs to remind me, as her love surrounds
me constantly. He also tells me daily that Jesus loves
me. I am not sure why feels the need to remind me of this so often, since
I know this more deeply than I know anything else. I detect in his tone the
sense that he may actually be reassuring himself of Jesus’ love as much as
he is trying to teach me. I suppose the statement "Jesus loves you" has value
regardless of the speaker’s motivations. Daddy also tells me he himself loves
me. I have no direct proof of this particular declaration as of yet; still,
I do not doubt it. He has not led me astray about anything so far, and I know
that Mama certainly loves him fiercely. If nothing else, that tells me I should
love him also, and I think I do.
I also have quite a strong feeling that life as I know it will not continue
forever. Perhaps this is an elementary idea from an adult’s perspective; it
from mine. I revel in my current existence, but I do not think it will, or
even should, last forever. As I grow, I more and more come to think that something
What that something is and what beyond might mean I cannot say. I have ideas
about it, though they serve only to convince me of my imagination’s inadequacy.
I confess to feeling not a little anxiety about my future,
but I hold to the conviction that Mama, Daddy, and Jesus will not leave me
when the time comes for me to move on, and that my relationships with each
of them will grow even stronger when I cross into the next life.
So I am not altogether devoid of discernment. I comprehend more every day,
and I wait with eager longing for something I do not yet understand but which
reveal more to me—and of me—than I in my current state can possibly dream.
Few people in the course of human history have managed the trick of understanding
the thoughts and feelings of preborn children. My parents may know that two
weeks ago I resembled a mutant raspberry and that now my head and "tush"
have developed into a barely recognizable form, but they know that mainly
from medical books and a brief sonogram rather than any first-hand knowledge.
At least they have been able to see my beating heart, and for that I am grateful.
Perhaps it solidified for them the final reality of my existence. But even
that gives them no window into my soul, for they cannot yet even look into
For my part, I have tried valiantly to fathom my mother’s emotions
both through her
woman’s psyche I shall never grasp in a century. I feel her powerfully, nevertheless,
and on a level unimaginable to anyone not living inside her. Sadly, the emotional
conduits between Mama and me seem relatively one-sided. I imagine this is due
mainly to my relative lack of stimulation and experience. I cannot even be
sure myself whether my emotions belong to me or her. I suppose we will share
everything including feelings for the next several months, our independent
minds notwithstanding. Still, I communicate my own thoughts as best I can,
on the subject
of food. I recently let
of my violent distaste for New York chili, and I believe she "got the message"
as they say. My daddy emphatically insists that I would enjoy chili made in
Texas, so I have
to dismiss the dish altogether.
Daddy is an interesting chap. He habitually caresses and kisses Mama’s abdomen
where he believes the smallest possible amount of flesh separates his lips
from my head. He prays for me. He sometimes recites a list of people who already
love me. He sings to me every night and constantly asks Mama whether she has
taken her daily
expected. It remains to be seen whether he understands well enough to translate
into a spoken language I have not yet learned. As I have an unexplainable—and
possibly genetic—urge to speak to the world, I sincerely hope he succeeds in