Son, It's time to get out of there...a poem?

It's been 38 weeks, 266 days since you have taken over my body
(in reality I didn't notice you in there until you were 6 weeks old, but still you were there).
I first noticed you when my mornings (afternoons, nights, and middle of the nights) were spent with my head in the toilet or running towards a sink if your father was using the toilet.

I first loved you when I saw your tiny, Lima bean shaped body- an ultrasound, your first picture.
I loved you each time I felt nauseous after brushing my teeth (okay, it was a mix of love and something not quite love but that was only because no one likes throwing up after they've brushed their teeth).

Your father has loved you since the day I told him you were in there, and even more when you kicked him in the cheek.
keep kicking him even once you are out of there because I secretly love it, 
but once you are out, please take a break from kicking me
I have felt your knobby knees and sharp little elbows in my ribs for long enough.

Let me instead hold your tiny body to me chest
And let you wrap your tiny hands around my finger
Let me smell your newborn head (and milky breath and even things I probably won't enjoy the smell of).

Let me see whose eyes you have, and which horrible nose you ended up with (but don't worry, it looks good on you, son!)

Let your father hold you, 
let him feel your weight, 
let him feel you and see you change with each day, week, year.

Son, it's time (no rush or anything)
Get out of there! 
(pretty please with breast milk on top)


From this day forward,
Mac-used to be a poet