An Apology

I feel like I should apologize to you, first and foremost, because you do not exist. It's not just that, because not existing, by itself, is probably not all that bad. After all, you don't know that you don't exist, so you probably don't have much of an opinion on it. But I want to apologize anyway, because I happen to know that there are a goodly number of people who wish that you did (my husband, for instance), and also because today is the first nice spring day we've had. The windows are open, and there is a pair of cardinals shopping for a condo in our hedge outside, and you're missing it. I'm sorry about that. There will be other new spring days as fine as this one in your lifetime, should it occur, but not this one.

I should also apologize to you because, given my age and that whole "brain tumor" situation, there are no guarantees that you will one day be around to experience a spring day like this one. My GP thinks you probably will. She looks me up and down, and sees me slim and healthy and glossy-haired and vegetarian and doing yoga, and not smoking and generally speaking coming across like a decent and responsible person, and she feels confident that once I'm back on the brain meds for the tumor (that's a scary word, but you don't have to worry about it at this point, I promise), that you will begin to appear of your own volition. Six months, that's her opinion.

I have to be honest with you, and this is part of the apology. I wasn't sure you were such a good idea at first. That's why it's taken me so long. It's not personal. I just mean that I wasn't sure you were a good idea for *me.* What if I'm not as responsible as I appear? I sleep late. I'm selfish. I'm definitely obsessed with my work. Also, it took me awhile, as it does many American women, to come to love my body as it was. That was a whole process. And now, to think about spoiling it - on purpose! - that didn't excite me. That probably seems very petty to you, and I'm sorry for it. But I'm just being honest.

The funny thing is, I've caught myself thinking about you. Books I think you would like. Artwork that I really want you to see. I have purchased a few toys for you, because I think you'll really love them, and I'm worried they'll go out of production. I have a bed for you. It's the same bed I slept in, and my dad slept in, and an unbroken line of taciturn people with my basic genetic makeup all the way back to the 1820s. I've already cautioned you, in my mind, not to jump on it.

I have your name, in mind. Well, two, depending on which side you go with. I like them both. I want you to like them, too. I want you to feel like they give you a sense of place, a sense of continuity with your family. Unlike others of your generation, you will  not be given a name that's supposed to make me sound cool. Aidan, Jaden, Bookcase, and Clyde. Your name will be sort of stuffy. You will probably hate it, for a time. But eventually, I hope you will secretly enjoy it. That the stuffiness will become a family joke.

I have already thought about where you would do best in school. I'm making a lot of assumptions about you, I realize, which is hardly fair, given that you don't even exist. But I want to stoke your curiosity as thoroughly as I can. I am willing to be a hypocrite in service of your education. I will put you on lists.

I'm sorry that my work will make me a bit remote from you, emotionally. I'm sorry that I will spend so much time shuttered away in my office writing. And I'm definitely sorry for the myriad ways in which your life will be mined for my work, which it inevitably will be. Here you don't even exist, and I'm already doing it. The trade-off is, I want you to be in the wider world. I will take you traveling with me. We will consider ways to live broadly. We will huger for experiences together. You can take your revenge on me in a memoir, and I'll even help you get it published, because I love you.