I’m sitting with your mom in a Starbucks in Charleston, South Carolina. We’re in town for a vacation. We’ve had a good run of luck with vacations and shorter trips the past couple of years, so I suppose we were due for one to not get off to a smooth start.
Your mom has been carrying you around for a little over 11 weeks now, and she’s still getting morning sickness. She had trouble sleeping in the bed at the inn we were staying at. It was built in 1845, which is nice for ambiance but not so nice for sleeping. The website says there was a ghost in the room, but I think that might just be a way to distract from the lumpy mattress.
So we checked out two days early and haven’t decided if we’re going to even stay in town the whole time, much less where we might stay. We may stop in Columbia or Augusta, or we may go home. None of this is your fault, it’s just how things are early on.
We read about you and talk to you every night. A book tells us with every week how big you’re getting. This week you are apparently the size of a fig, last week a kumquat. Several weeks ago you were the size of a bean. “Little bean” has become our codename for you so I hope you like it.
(your mom is cursing a guy she went to high school with for being a doofus on Facebook, this also is not your fault if you’re wondering what the commotion is about)
We’re not sure if you’ll be a boy or a girl yet. If you turn out to be a boy we’ll call you Fitz William, if you’re a girl we’ll call you Eloise Wren. We’re hedging our bet painting a mural in your room, as there will likely be a wren painted somewhere in there either way. We like birds a lot and hope you will too.