If I was writing you a letter, it would probably sound something like an apology.
I know everyone deserves a mama who'd want a nice baby such as yourself, who was also a good wife, a fine member of society. And I can't rightly say that I'm any of that, and I'm not sure the world is such a fine place to be bringing you.
Many of the people I've met are not worth meeting. Many of the things that happen are not worth living through.
And you shouldn't take it personal, baby, if I don't seem like all the other mamas-to-be, jumping all over themselves with joy. I frankly don't know what I got to give you, baby.
What if I leave Earl and don't win that contest next week and don't have no money? What the hell am I going to do with you then?
You sure is getting fat, baby. All my life, baby, the only thing I ever want to do is run away. What kind of mama is that?
I wish I could feel other things, baby. Like excitement that you're with me now or faith that I'll be a good mama, even if my life ain't such a good place and the world as I see it ain't so pretty like they'd have you believe in this book.
Anyway, I'm writing this letter to you. It sounds more like a letter to me, don't it?