You're going to be here any moment. Like...this one. Or...maybe this one? How about now? No? Fine. We're patient. We're all very, very excited to meet you, but I think your mom is especially excited, because it means you'll stop kicking all of her organs. You're obviously really tired of being in there, too, because you barely fit. You're sticking out every side. It can't be comfortable.
Everything is just about ready for you, though every time I think that, we come up with something else we have to do. Our hospital bag is packed. Your carseat is in the car. There is a lovely bassinet next to our bed just waiting to be filled by you. We have diapers and a changing table (well, okay, it's our dresser, but your mom has made it really nice). Of course, I still have to put your swing together and get your bouncer out of the garage and...okay maybe we're not quite COMPLETELY ready. But we're ready enough, so don't wait on our account.
As I'm sure I wrote to both of your siblings around this time, I wish I'd written to you more. There are so many things I wanted to tell you, but life gets busy. Maybe try to think of it this way: Instead of writing to you more, I painted your room and did a million other things. I've been nesting for months. So for every missing letter I should have written, know that I was writing to you with life instead. I'll have years and years to tell you everything. You'll be sick of listening to me.
We love you, and whenever you decide to make your appearance will be the perfect time for all of us. But for your mom's sake, maybe don't wait until July, alright?