To my little Peanut,
You are 16 weeks old today. Womb-age that is. You're growing steadily and surely. Already it's hard to bend over, and I've never seen my rear end take on such a life of its own. You've given me the beginnings of a true baby belly. Definitely recognizable. No more "food" baby belly. (As in I've just eaten a giant Mediterranean meal and I'm sticking it out with all my might.) Your daddy and I talk about you all the time. We already love you so much. We talk about how we want to raise you and what we think you'll look like. He wants you to have my eyes. I want you to have his lips. And nose. And eyes. And hair. And smile. And personality. I pray for you, that as the Lord develops your physical body, He will also create in you a heart for Him. We argue about names, and the only ones we can really agree on for you are Mackenzie, for a girl. Milo, for a boy. I just read that your little ears have started to hear outside noise, and I love the thought that my voice will be the one you hear for 9 straight months, and then the next one you'll hear is your daddy's. It is impossible for us to even mention you without prefacing it with Sweet. Our sweet baby. At times I find myself not wanting to love you so much already, to protect my heart from any sort of pain. But a half second later I'm reminded of how completely impossible that is, that I couldn't not love you if I tried. More than anything, we want you to have a heart for the Lord, a humble heart. A heart that is moved by others. But if anyone breaks that heart, I'll kill 'em. We want to raise you in Costa Rica. Argentina. Paraguay. We want you to speak Spanish as fluently as English. We want you to know life outside of the four walls of the United States. But more than all these things, we want to raise you the way God wants us to raise you.
We love you, our sweet baby.