Dearest Bean,

Your father has a lot of ties.  I know you're probably reading this saying "Thanks Mom for that amazing piece of information," but it's true.  He really does.

I know this because I just finished cleaning out his closet.

It's very strange.  Your father isn't the most...how do I put this?  He's not someone who is really focused on fashion. (Thank God.)  He looks kind of rumpled and relaxed most of the time.  His hair is always a little too long and most days he looks like he can't find a comb.   

But he wears a tie to work every single day and I love that.

So now those ties are all organized and hanging in perfect rows.   And I will kill him if I see one of them on the floor anytime soon.  I arranged them by color, then by pattern.  I found some he must have bought when he lived in Connecticut that I didn't really recognize.

This is weird, because if there ever was a time I paid attention to every little thing about your dad; it was that year he came back from Connecticut.

Anyway, his closet is now completely organized.   My closet is organized.  So are both dressers, our nightstands and that giant junk drawer in the kitchen. 

I'm driving him a little bit crazy I think but I can't seem to help myself. 

I've washed and folded all the clothes we've gotten as gifts for you and some clothes I couldn't help but buy for you myself.    We're waiting to get your bedding.  Your Grandma Beesly said that once we've found out what you are she'll go get one of the two sets I've picked out and set up your crib.

As well some clothes in pink or blue other than yellow or green.  I've been dying to buy more gender specific clothes but I'm resisting.

Things are alright here.  They tell me you are only about 4 or so pounds but I don't believe it.  You are gargantuan.  I'm convinced.  I've gained about 20 pounds and you have to account for about 15 of them. 

There is no other explanation.

I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping.  I feel awful about it but I keep waking your dad up because I can't sleep.   We're both completely exhausted.

Even so during the day I feel the need to do all sorts of things I'm afraid I won't have time after you get here. 

Your furniture is all set up (that was something else - your father is not going to give Bob Villa any competition let me tell you.  There is a reason we hired contractors to fix up the house).  I finally finished the mural on your wall and ceiling (mostly trees and clouds and stuff, it kind of looks like our backyard actually.  I think I'll add some more flowers and things if you end up being a girl). All in all we're really pretty prepared for you to get here honestly.

I mean, we even sucked it up and bought a new car.

Please don't think we're not cool now that we drive something that looks like a minivan.

No really.  I promise.  We are still cool.

Wait.  If you have to keep saying you're still cool does that really mean the opposite? 

I think it might.

Anyway when driving in our new kind of minivan some days your father takes a different route home than I'm used to.  He doesn't think I notice but he checks his watch the minute we leave wherever we are and the minute we pass the hospital - which may or may not be on our way to wherever we're going.

I think he's freaking out.

And he can't freak out.  He is absolutely not allowed to freak out.

Because I'm freaking out.  Only one of us can be freaking out at a time.

It's a deal we have and it's worked out very well so far.   I refuse to let him change that.  Especially now.

Bean, let me be honest with you.  It's been a long time since I baby sat anyone and when I did I was not that responsible a baby sitter.  I don't remember much about it - other than I used to talk on the phone a lot or draw in my sketchbook the entire time. 

Point is I wasn't the most responsible.  I'm not trying to scare you.  I'm just being honest here so you know what to expect.

I'm just not sure I'm going to be any good at any of this.  Your dad says I'm crazy but that's easy for him to say.  He's able to charm pretty much everyone he meets. 

It's true.  I once watched him pick up a girl in only about 20 minutes.

Please note that this is before we were ever together.  And also note that I think at least both Michael and Dwight were trying to pick her up too. 

If given those choices - I mean really.  No contest.

Anyway this is not going to be a problem.   I know you're going to love him.  All kids do.  Pretty much everyone does. 

It's not difficult to figure out why.  He's very easy to love.

People I know who have kids keep telling me that it's not easy but there are really things you just know when the time comes.   I'm trying to believe them but that's not easy either.

How am I going to know what you're crying about?  I mean, a diaper change I can probably figure out, and maybe if you're just hungry but what if it's something else?  I wish babies talked earlier.  Since you won't be able to talk I'm scared I'm going to be this completely irrational mother who rushes their kid to the hospital every 5 seconds because she has absolutely no clue.   And the nurses will hate me and the doctors will roll their eyes when they see me come in.

I guess that I can't really screw up too much when you are really little.  I mean it'll probably just be a lot of trial and error.  As long as I don't drop you I think we'll be OK.

Right?

Except I'm a little clumsy - and since I've been pregnant oh geez.  It's just gotten worse.  I drop everything lately.

Maybe I'll make your dad hold you and I'll just take you whenever I'm sitting down. 

That could work until he goes back to work at least.

Maybe I'll make him start working from home.  Then he'd only need to leave the house for sales calls.

So yeah.  That's the plan.  Tell me you'll promise to be really advanced and talking by the time you're oh...let's say eight months old I'm not too greedy and I'll get your dad to stay home until you can walk so that I won't drop you.

OK.  That is a really ridiculous plan.

I guess I just have to relax and have faith that I can actually do this.  That I won't drop you or feed you too much or be helpless to know what's going on with you when you cry.  Maybe I can just expect that I'll know what to do like forty percent of the time.   Or maybe (and I hope this is the case) I'll develop some weird super power when you're born that will tell me how to understand you so I don't mess you up too much.

I hope so, Bean.  I really, really hope so.

Mom