(Inspired by Waitress, a letter to my unborn child.)

Dear Pipsqueak,

I was blessed to have a very good childhood. We weren’t rich but I never wanted for anything. My parents loved me and supported me. I had fun, friends, and minimal tragedy. I worry that I won’t be able to offer you the same thing.

I read these news stories and commentaries and personal essays, about how my generation is so angst-filled because we don’t live as well as our parents. We grew up being told we could do anything. Isn’t a part of the American dream to do better than our parents? Wasn’t that our parents’ dream?

I don’t know if I can live up to that. I probably won’t be able to afford to send you to private school. Your computers may always be a little slow, our cars a little beat up. We may shop at thrift stores out of need instead of choice.

The only thing I can assure you is that you’ll be loved. You were an accident but you were not a mistake. I knew that even the moment I saw those two lines and fell apart on the floor. I cried in a way I’ve only cried a couple of times in my life. Each tear burned in me a reminder of all of my weaknesses and failures. I didn’t think I was strong enough to keep you. And maybe I’m not. But I will try and I will love you.

My love may be imperfect but it will never waiver. I won’t always say the right thing or hug you the right way. But I will try. I will try to never push you away or hold you too tightly. I will try to show you the world without being too cynical. I will try to hold your hand without molding you into my vision of what you should be. Sometimes I will fail. I hope you will forgive me.

You are blessed to have an army of people who already love you, who are ready to help me to fill your life with laughter and beauty and art. I pray it will be enough because it’s all I have to offer.

All my love,
Me.