I would have taken a photo of the crumpled sheets of paper that were in my waste basket had Melissa not emptied them out earlier in the evening. Bin night you see.
I have been trying to write a letter for my unborn kid for the past week. Handwritten that is, to be kept for her along with the other words of wisdom, until her 18th birthday. It's a cool sentiment that some part of my brain scoffs because it believes I'm going to offer those words before she reaches 18 anyway. It doesn't matter. It's a plan. Which is a damn sight more than I have at this moment.
Thing is, I'm terrified and excited at the same time. I know it's a normal reaction to one's first expected kid, but the reality of facing it is wholly different. Honestly if you were to tell me ten years ago that I would be married, with a kid along the way, in a house that I own, I would laugh at you for imagining a road that I wasn't going to take. Not because I never planned to, but because I couldn't see myself giving up the life I had for one I didn't even expect.
Yet now, I'm sitting here writing about how I can't think of how to start the first of many letters to my daughter. So much for best laid plans.
Maybe the lesson here is that sometimes life doesn't always go according to plan, especially of you are the one that made the choice to deviate from those plans. You have to live with them, and more to it, is that you have to make the best of them. Just as I am doing now, for a family I never expected. For a life, that I always put a back seat to as figments of my imagination. The reality is that I still want the best things in life, and regardless of what I am going through now, that desire has never changed. Nor should it.
I don't think the next letter is going to find itself crumpled in the waste basket. I just hope my kid can read what is is I'm writing. It's a long time still to perfect my handwriting, but this first one is still going to be a doozy.