Dear Small Boy,
I found a sunny spot on the deck.
I watched a bee fly into our house through the open door.
I listened for your brother who was supposed to be napping but was “karate chomping” an imaginary enemy in his bed.
I thought about making myself throw up.
I wondered where we would put you. Where do you put a baby who has no home yet? On me I suppose.
I took a sip of water.
I scoured the Internet for a reckless purchase to make me feel happy.
I heard your daddy’s worry vibrating from downstairs.
I felt you stretch and poke around inside me, reminding me it’s getting cramped in there (I know, bud, I know).
I counted down 9 weeks.
I breathed in the fresh air. There are trees around the deck.
I did the best I could in the moment.
Dear Small Boy is a series of letters about perinatal depression.