Letter 11

Dear Peapod,

It's official--you have now been breathing the air of life for 4 months now, and I have no idea where the time went.  It's as if yesterday I was massaging my enormous belly awaiting the moment you would knock the wind out of my lungs to say you were ready to come join me, and today you are looking at me with the knowledge of a real being that knows you must eat, sleep, and empty your bodily wastes 10x1000 times a day!  Your comforting nature knows when I need a smile.  Your health is of the utmost importance to me, and God knows I could not handle any deviation from a healthy check-up.  I found it hard to compose myself as they jabbed the syringes into your muscular legs, squeezing the antibodies into your blood.  Afterwards, I thought you would cry, moan, be sick, but not my peapod.  Oh no, my peapod was the beast that laughed at the injections.  Once the shots were over, you gazed at the nurses, silently challenging, "Is this all you got?" 

I love you my warrior peapod,

Mommy