Dear baby girl,
Every morning I wake up and think, "is today the day?" But it never is. You've gotten so big that I can trace across my belly your shoulders, back, elbows, knees, and of course, those tap-dancing little feet. You prefer to be curled up near my left hip, so my left hand is almost always touching you. I fall asleep every night gazing at your newborn bed, imagining you sleeping in it. Thinking about you being here and in my arms gives me such a rush. It's the kind that starts in my chest and circulates down to my toes and curls back around my heart. I've probably folded and re-folded your clothes and diapers at least once a day for the past month. Your dad is so on edge about me going into labor that he wakes up gasping and has to check to make sure I'm okay before he can go back to sleep. He keeps holding my belly with both hands and saying, "RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!!" I hope you aren't horribly insulted as you're reading this when you're older. We love you, baby girl. Come out soon so we can rub noses and/or tentacles.