Dear Spawn

Dear Spawn,

If you're reading this, it worked.

A few thousand dollars, a little heartache, some excitement, and some patience and then someday you'll exist and be able to read this. If this doesn't work, well, at least we tried.

When I was seven and becoming a fluent reader and beginning busy body I spent some time exploring the bookshelves in my home. Among other interesting discoveries I found a journal that I think my mother meant to use as a baby book for me when I was born. There are some loving descriptions of me from the woman who is now my mom, but at the time was a brand-new freshly minted Mother learning her new role and meeting the human she grew. She only wrote in it for a few months, as presumably parenting took up her writing time, but it still meant something to me reading it as a child. I'd like to say this blog will serve a similar purpose, but as of today that's just a dream. I'm writing this so that all the brain weasels running around in my mind can be a little more organized.

I'm not a terribly private person. Sure I have drawers that I'd rather you didn't open, but I think my life is best lived in the light. So in the spirit of openness, here's how you were concieved, literally and figuratively.

With love,

E.

PS - If anyone in my real life asks me about the status of my uterus, be prepared to have your head bitten off. I'll tell you when I'm good and ready.