Dear One

** It's been a good six months since my last post. I could write an entire entry of excuses but let's just get back to business.. I am now the parent of a one-year-old. A better late than never post. Written then, posted now. Just our style..

 

Dear One,

You woke from your late afternoon nap, a birthday girl with wild hair and tired eyes. Shifting out of sleep mode is hard on you but once in my arms you curled into my body like you still lived there. You pushed your chin up to mine for a kiss, and again. And you wrapped your little arms around my ribs and summoned all your strength to squeeze me tight. Don’t let go.

Last night you ate an entire plate of bite-sized food. Steak, tomatoes, mozzarella, mushrooms, spinach, peppers, all stabbed with a miniature fork by your own hand. It was almost ridiculous. I looked at you and thought, “Whose kid is this?” and wondered how much longer you’ll need me the way you do. It won’t be long enough. These seemingly never-ending days that flicker bright and then pass. I want each one back as soon as it’s gone. Remind me again tomorrow.

I remind myself now of that day that couldn’t come fast enough. Back when time sauntered carelessly in a means that now seems foreign. Back when an hour was plenty of time. I'll always remember Star Wars playing as I squirmed through contractions and your dad marked the clock. You were on your way. Ten days late. You must have known the life you were coming in to, the last minute whirlwind of a mother you would have to share it with. You were conditioning. Fashionably late. Brewing to perfection.

You came to us in that enchanting hour just before dawn on what would forever become your day, September 17. I was spun into a haze after finally accepting, or rather pleading, for medication 20 hours into a 25-hour long labor. But I was present. Completely consumed by and present in that defining moment. With your tiny warm body in my arms I would watch the sun rise over the Tacoma port from a big round window in the honey comb building, formally known as Saint Joseph’s Hospital. I’d spent so many months outside these walls, staring up to the structure that sat so loudly on hilltop, a regular reminder that this day was coming. That this sunrise was on its way to officially change my life and welcome yours.

And just like that. Life flashes forward.

Your first birthday was a hard lesson. The banana pancakes from my imagination never made it to the table. I prepped the bags (only to later forget them) and planned the play date where I would torture myself trying to wrangle you and Parker from climbing separate stairs at the children’s museum. I'd done my self a great disservice by inviting my Tacoma mom core to join us and witness an episode of my mental breakdown. My emotions ran high as I tried not to count how many days I’d lost in a similar sweat-drenched frenzy, worrying myself over the wrong things. I tried to hold on to your day as I watched it sift away like sand between my fingers. I knew from your first breath that I wanted to give you the world, all of the good, precious, little luxuries, wrapped in ribbons and bows. Like the headbands of lace you won’t keep on anymore. I’m learning to let go of perfection and expectation and find peace  and joy among the pieces, the stained clothes and the clutter.

Honestly, I’m just glad that in the last year we’ve managed to keep you alive, well and in good spirits. We really have no clue what we’re doing. It doesn’t matter how much childcare experience I can document onto a five page resume. It’s all a different matter when you're making the rules. Especially for baby number one. The guinea piglet. Do you vaccinate? We did. Do you come down firm with the ground rules from day one or do you grant infant amnesty? Your dad and I even the totem pole pretty well on this one, I think you'll turn out alright. Who do we entrust with your care? Thankfully we have a goldmine of grandmas living within city limits so we haven’t had to leave you with any of the neighbors. The list of questions is endless and in the end right and left aren't always the answers. We’re doing our best to say the least. And for that effort we get an A.

Maybe it's the mother in me but I've got to say, you're perfect. Thoughtful and affectionate. Playful and silly. Especially in the bewitching hour before bedtime when we all roll around on the big bed. Fits of laughter and raspberries blown from flushed cheeks. You bring out of me these animated voices I never knew before now, in our huddle, bursting with joy from our insides out. Every true sense of self in that space, whole heartedly loving you and knowing, this is ours alone, and ours to keep.

You started walking this month. A few steps turned into a few more and now you cross a room on wide, wobbling legs with your arms stretched for psychological support. Two-feet-tall, pushing furniture and large objects across the room. You light up and scream with delight at the top of little lungs.

I hope I never take these precious moments for granted, because they turn to days, to months, to years. And I'll wake to my dreams and it will be another birthday and another reminder to stop and celebrate you. To pay close attention. To hold and to cherish rather than wishing it all to a blur.

Thank you for being here. I’m so blessed to watch you twirl around the sun. Happy birthday little lion.