Day One

Dear Baby,

Your name should be Murphy, as in Murphy's Law.

You decided to announce yourself in my urine on my first, exploratory visit to a fertility clinic. I was there to find out how to have you, not that I did have you.

I welcomed you oddly. The doctor said, "You've made my job easy."

I replied, "Are you kidding? . . . Oh, no, you're a doctor, you wouldn't kid. Sorry."

Kidding. Kid. Funny doubt words when it comes to a noun kid.

You're also earning the Murphy nickname because you've taken up residence in my uterus just two weeks before a scheduled climbing trip. The fertility doctor answered my query about still going on this trip with a sarcastic "Come now . . . no." I'll have to check with other doctors, as it seems from trawling the web that plenty of women climb during pregnancy. The doctor didn't look like an athlete, anyway.

It's not that I want to risk you already, it's just that climbing and activity are major components of what keeps me happy. You'll be one too. I'll make sure you know that. I'll have to work at it. I'm 39. I've been doing my own thing for a long time. I'm self-centered by rote of having been by myself for so long before meeting your father, Mike. And Mike, good soul that he is, gives me free rein to pursue my passions when I can. But I've managed to balance our life together with my solo pursuits, so I know I can work you into the mix. I want to work you in to all that both Mike and I do, so you can see what's available to you, maybe find a passion you can turn into a career, instead of having a career around which maybe you'll find time to do things you love. More on that later.

Anyway, Murphy, welcome to my body. Settle in, and lets try to have a nice ride together.