A Letter to My Unborn Son

While I was trying to conceive, and before I knew I was pregnant, I had the idea of writing to my unborn child a story of how I felt during the nine months of his/her gestation. I began writing, the “Letter to My Unborn Child”, a few months into my mother-to-be-hood. When I found out my child was a boy I switched the title to end in Son. Why though, did I have the urge and drive to write this letter?

I think it was because in my case, the pregnancy was my first and definitely my last. I was 44 when I conceived. I cherished the life growing inside of me. Each day I awoke with a halo filled with miraculousness. I wanted to experience every moment of the wondrous creation of life through all the six senses. What better way than to record it all? My becoming a mother was such a departure from my life up until that point, I felt compelled to record this once-in-my-lifetime experience. Besides, I wanted to give this letter to my child when h/she turned eighteen.

A Total Snob Before Motherhood

Throughout my twenties and thirties, I had little next to no desire to be a super mom, as were many of my peers. I was such a snob. With a holier than thou attitude, I thought to raise a child was a waste of life. I certainly had no respect for women who stayed at home: those forfeiting the world of having a career and economic freedom were just sheeple following in the footsteps of their grandmothers, and tradition in my arrogant opinion. That tradition didn’t serve me so I dismissed it out of hand. Even as a feminist, I unconsciously bought into a macho feminist version (meaning feminists buying into the male machismo that permeates our society, ugh!) of why it was wrong for some women to be stay-at-home mothers. (I’ve since revised my perception on this topic and actually applaud those who are fortunate and able to be at home with their children).

The concept of motherhood was alien to me. I was highly independent and couldn’t imagine how I could fit a child into my busy schedule which consisted of international travel for at least three months of any given year. In hindsight, I believe one of the main reasons I dismissed the idea of motherhood was not because I didn’t want to have children, rather I didn’t want to have a child with anyone of my lovers or with my first husband. I was terrified of raising a latchkey child because emotionally I was still co-dependent in my intimate relationships and in the dark about what true interdependency meant.

When I met my son’s father, I knew instantly that he was the one. He was the man who was going to be the father of my child. Don’t ask how I knew, I just did. Sort of like a bell that goes off inside, ‘ding, ding, ding’. You cannot avoid hearing its call, its urgency. I knew I hit the jackpot. And so it came to pass, three years after that fateful encounter, I became pregnant. I began writing.

I wanted a healthy child regardless of gender yet longed for a boy. The men in my life — from father, brother, uncle, two significant loves and various business partners — were grave disappointments and represented the bleak and grim of humanity: liars, cheaters, misogynists, manipulators, narcissists, petty dictators of sorts and thieves. Most of all these men were emotional vampires, stuck in an adolescent reality from which they never emerged.

I was determined, if I had a boy, to raise him to be the man I never met yet always wanted to know and love unconditionally in my life. So I began writing a love letter to my unborn son.

Excerpts from the Letter

Day One

I just took the pregnancy test in a hotel room in Rome. I’m ecstatic. I feel a joy I haven’t ever experienced before. The little strip indicator on the tube turned pink. I flung it to the ground, ran to the bedroom and screamed out loud, “I’m pregnant”. I think all the shutters in Rome were flapping in the wind at that moment. I imagined Romans celebrating in the streets singing Handel’s “Hallelujah”.

During Month One

I’m thrilled to meet you and nurture you every single day for the next nine months. I know it’s a bit too early to say that as Magda, my OBN-GYN told me to wait till I’ve passed the 12-week mark to be absolutely certain that you will be born to this earth. I don’t believe in naysayers and I’m pretty certain you will be born unto me. In fact, I know you will be born unto me.

I had a talk with your father about names. He was adamant about not giving you a middle name. I think he feels it’s a burden because he grew up within a strict Catholic family and Catholics in Europe give their children about a hundred names. Just kidding, each person gets four names and I have no clue why. In Holland, I found it quite archaic and ridicularous (ridiculous and hilarious combined) that these names are still used in Latin, a dead language. Think Waterius, Hermanus, Tiberius …. ending in “us”. I agreed.

In the Jewish tradition one names a child after a dead relative, usually the matriarch. My maternal grandmother’s name was Faye. She was beloved and more a mother to me than my own. I met your father at Cafe Floor in Rotterdam. Those two signs: Grandma Faye’s initial and the cafe we met at sealed the deal. F. If you were a girl we would name you Fabiola and if you were a boy then Florian. I loved the name Florian from the first time I heard it when I was living in Switzerland in the 90s. I worked with a wonderful colleague named Florian and repeated his name ad nauseum as it rolled off the tongue sweetly. The name was uplifting and so too would be your spirit.

Then came the discussion over the family name. In Europe, depending on where you live, a woman may or may not keep her own name and add on her husband’s. For example, I entertained our family name to be Krentzel van Hulst. It sounded regal. Very Germanic. Well in fact I am. Your Grandma Faye was born in Germany and Grandpa Irving was born in Austria. Your paternal grandparents on my side were both born in Belarus in the former Soviet Union. But, according to the records, they escaped pogroms in German-speaking Europe under the Hapsburgs and fled to Russia.

Sorry. I got sidetracked.

That would mean I’d take your father’s name as the add-on, you’d get both names and he would take my family name too. Not allowed in Holland! That was unfortunate and too patriarchal for my disposition. Whereas in Switzerland, both husband and wife could take each other’s name, switch them around however they chose. In my first marriage and now in this one, I didn’t take my husbands’ name as my identity is based on my name, not theirs. Then in one brilliant move, your dad identified something I hadn’t thought of.

He blew me away. “Elise since you’re the mother and the mother does all the work, carrying the baby all nine months and giving birth, I think our child should have your family name only.” Compartmentalizing it like that was genius. I was all for it. Your name would either be Fabiola Krentzel or Florian Krentzel. It sounded beautiful.

During the Second to Third Month

The weather is miserable as usual and I’m looking forward to this summer, spending it in the south of France with Catherine at her house. By that time I’ll be very much popping and you’ll be kicking. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about your date of birth. I’m told you’ll be a December baby. That makes you a Scorpio in sidereal astrology or a Sagittarius in western astrology. Either case they’re two very compatible signs to mine. In fact, I’m going to have your chart done within weeks of your birth, a sneak peek if you will. I’m going to teach you about metaphysics and how to trust your intuition implicitly. That’s something I had to relearn after years of being told not to listen to my “truth”.

I’ve decided to paint it turquoise and yellow. I’m plastering stars on the ceiling that glow in the dark. I changed the knobs and put colorful playful trains and cars on all the furniture. Your dad and I painted a chest purple. That’s where I’ll change your diapers.

I’m going to caress you every single moment and carry you in a sling. I don’t like the idea of cribs, they’re like cages so I won’t get one for you. I think babies ought to stay close to their mother’s bodies day and night and never be left alone to cry. Screw that Dr. Spock philosophy, that’s sadistic. I want you to sleep in my bed until you don’t want to anymore.

The Topic of Religion

You’ll come to see that your father and I have such differing lifestyles and opinions; we are truly worlds apart. And when it comes to child-rearing, I’m hoping it doesn’t become a divisive issue; all I want is to be a gorgeous happy loving family, the three of us, as individuals and as a family unit. That means 3 versions: all of us, you and me and you and dad. Viola. Harmonious in all ways.

Take religion for example. I won’t raise you Jewish although you will be since the mother rules and so it is in Judaism. I do want you to be circumcised though, and it’s hard to explain why except that that is a tradition I adhere to. Irrational yes. It’s also proven to be cleaner. Because your dad is as well it makes sense in a sort of like father like son way.

On the other hand, your father grew up as a strict Catholic. He was a choir boy until he was 16! That’s unbelievable to me since he was 16 in 1984. When I was 16 I was galavanting around Europe, listening to David Bowie and Mott the Hoople and going to glam concerts. Your dad is not a practicing Catholic but the rest of his extended family definitely is. Just wait till you go to your grandparents’ home or his brother’s, your uncle or his sister’s, your aunt. They all have Catholic crosses in their living rooms, bedrooms, you name it. Jesus loves you, ugh! Your dad and I agreed you will not be baptized. Both of us want to create our own rituals with you as a family. Dunking you in so-called holy water is not one of them, especially as condoned by a priest who could’ve been a pedophile.

You’re going to be raised non-sectarian. I want to teach you about all the world’s religions from Hinduism, Buddhism, Muslim, Judaism, and Christianity but not just. I also want you to learn mysticism and ancient esoterica — Kabbala, Wiccan, Druids, Sufism, — other teachings and knowledge. My hope is that you come to understand the essence of all such teachings is love. Mainstream religion is dogmatic and dogma has no place in my mind and heart. I’m a free spirit. That’s the main handover I’ll give you: how to be a free spirit to avoid being brainwashed by religion or society’s dictates. Karl Marx said, “religion is the opiate of the masses”. So long as your mind is closed to other-ness or concepts that appear outlandish then you are closed. Be open and the world will unfold before your eyes.