Dear Stewart,

The first thing I want to do is of course wish you the happiest of birthdays. I hope that you are able to spend it with your family and loved ones, and that it's a very nice day for you all. Eat something yummy, do something fun, and hug and kiss everyone you encounter. I wanted you to know that I'm thinking of you and I hope that gives you the teeny tiniest of thrills (and if it doesn't, I don't want to know!).

Also, I want you to know that I'm done slamming Sting on this little blog of mine. Yay! Live and let live! 

I have a little birthday announcement to make, and I've been saving the news for a loooong time. In fact, I've been fairly bursting with eagerness to tell people. I suck at keeping secrets, I mean, truly, I'm very bad at it. But then I realized that jumping the gun was good for nobody, so I decided to wait until 12 weeks had passed. And this day, exactly, your birthday, is the 12th week. Funny, isn't it? Honest to god I didn't plan it that way.

I think by now anybody reading this with half a brain (these letters really don't require more than half a brain) has made the connection between the time frame I wanted to work with and what it is I have to say, which is:

Stewart, my favorite imaginary friend, let me just say it: I'm having a baby. He or she is due to arrive in early February 2011.

This is the first ultrasound I had, at about 7-8 weeks, on June 24th. The baby is the little walnut-shaped creature lurking in the dark. I guess that's my "womb." After inserting the... thing, the doctor moved it around, looking for a picture, like she was steering a boat, and I readied myself for another 9 months of being poked and prodded like a cow. And for looking and feeling like a cow. It didn't hurt, wasn't really all that uncomfortable, but felt unreal, and I got emotional. What can I say? That little walnut-shaped creature is my baby. And, as I learned at this appointment, my teeny tiny child has a heart. A heart that beats, even. It was pretty incredible.

I am really, really excited. And terrified. And happy. And a little vomit-y, but everyone tells me that's going to go away real soon. Oh, and I feel fat and ugly sometimes, but then I look in the mirror, and my hair hasn't looked this full and lustrous in ages. I haven't started to show or anything yet, but I feel very full and a little bloated. My pants are tight, and I'm peeing all the time, and I could take a nap at the drop of a hat.

It would be unfair for me to say that the impetus for me and Patrick getting off our butts and doing this, now, was your book (at the age of 38, me getting pregnant definitely is a "strange thing that happened"!) but your words about how being a father and having a family are more important to you than the fame and fun of being "Stewart Copeland," did make an impact on me. Patrick and I have been married for 12 years: this was going to happen eventually. Our life together has been fun and loving and everything I hoped it would be. But you did sort of open my eyes to the fact that there is more, and that even for a rock star, a family can be all a person needs. I'll never be a rock star, but...

So did I mention I'm scared? I'm really scared! But Patrick and I can do this. And we will raise the cutest, smartest little kid we can. Maybe he/she will want to be a flutist, or a drummer, or both! But more importantly, healthy, and sweet.

Love you,
Irene

P.S. Patrick put his foot down. The kid, if it's a boy, will not be named Stewart. However, I think "Armstrong Palma" has a certain ring to it, don't you? I might be able to slip it past him. I'll keep you posted.