Category Archives: Monthly Letters to BabyA

Dear BabyA, month by month

Dear Avery, Year Four

Dear LittleA,

Monday you turned four years old. Since you were born, August 11th has been a bittersweet day for me, a time to remember the strange juxtaposition of trauma and joy. I remember cradling the phone in my neck while excitedly packing a suitcase that afternoon, trying to conceal my feelings from Melanie while we talked on the phone. When I wasn’t in pain, I was, I confess, a little preoccupied with meeting you, with pregnancy being over, with the act of Getting On With It. At the same time I knew things were Not Right and bad stuff might happen, something in me knew you were fine and would be fine, and I was just ready to be on the other side and holding you, my precious baby girl.


Until I sat down to write this letter to you tonight I did not realize that on Monday I hadn’t a single thought of the circumstances surrounding your birth.

You slept late, and when you woke, you crept up the stairs where TeenHer and I were playing with BabyJ. I saw your face, sleepily annoyed at waking up alone. Immediately I burst into song and so did you sister, so that you glided up the stairs to the refrains of “happy birthday”. Even BabyJ tried to sing. We cuddled on the couch for a while (Like the rest of us, you prefer the staying awake to the waking up) and then had pancakes for breakfast. You and I picked out your birthday cake together and in the afternoon we sang again before you blew out four perfect pink candles. They had to be pink, as did the roses on the cake.

Happy Birthday

I’m a little embarrassed to post pictures of your birthday cake ceremony because I did something terrible to your hair last week. If you’re looking closely you can see where I was headed with the scissors, but I just didn’t get there. At first I’d planned to march you into the hair salon before this coming Monday, the first day of Pre-K, because I was afraid you’d be the only girl in school with a haircut that looked like your brother was the stylist. Then I realized two things: You don’t care what your hair looks like. My favorite thing about you is that you never, ever wonder if you look OK, if you match, if your dress is just right. You seem to already have the enviable sense that you cannot be anything other than beautiful.

The second thing I realized is that if ever I want to punish you, I should have you sit still. The hair stylist is an idea born of my vanity, my own insecurity, and there are a million things you’d rather do, go to school with momma-cut hair included, besides sit motionless in a chair while someone you don’t know flits around you with a sharp object.

So you’ll start Pre-K on Monday, no doubt with your sparkly red slippers and a pink dress, backpack in hand, hair perfect as perfect needs to be in your world.

always in motion

I thought I’d be sadder about this time in your life, the gentle unfolding of your wings, the casual wave over your shoulder as you trot off with whoever promises you a picnic or a playground. I’m not, though. For every casual wave over the shoulder, there’s a tight hug, a gentle cheek stroke, a tiny hand reaching toward me in the middle of the night. You and I are so similar in that way. Let me go, but don’t go far! You wipe my kisses off your cheek but in your sleep you give yourself away when you gravitate toward me, sometimes reaching out to tangle your fingers in my hair.

Lately you’ve said often: but I don’t want to be alone!
and I see so much of myself in that statement! Tonight I noticed myself calling your dad on his cell phone while he was upstairs, begging him to come be in the room with me. For this reason, I rarely get exasperated anymore when you say that you don’t want to be alone. I get it. Later in your life people might call you hot/cold. My wish for you is that you find someone like your dad. I think that’s your wish too. Last week you told your dad that you’ll marry him when you grow up. I so enjoy watching you love the people around you!

I always have trouble wrapping up these letters. So I’ll just say Happy Belated Birthday, my littlest girl. It was a lovely day, and you are a lovely person.

Love, Mom

Birthday Present

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Month 24

Dear ToddlerA,

So, I suppose I dropped the ball a couple of months ago on the monthly letters. It’s because we gradually love you less each month. Your worst fears are realized. Sorry.

The truth is that we continue to find ourselves unable to resist you, even when it’s midnight and you really should be sleeping. We keep cheating, going in to rescue you from baby jail, thinking like true insane people when we say, “maybe tonight she’ll lay with us! Maybe tonight she’ll fall asleep in our bed! It’ll be different THIS TIME” Except you don’t, you never will, and the whole point of being in bed with us is all about jumping because damn this bed is bouncy and huge! Last night we switched things up-instead of taking you to bed and then having to get you later, we took you into our room first and endured the jumping, and prying our eyes open (that’s really, really not funny, even though each of us laughs when you’re doing it to the other parent) and the constant screeching for sips of my tea. When I finally did take you into your bedroom it was well after 11. When I finally put my head down to go to sleep it was well after 12:30, and you were still in there talking to Nemo. I should have known I would produce another nocturnal child, and most days I can’t find anything wrong with it, especially when it’s 10 a.m. and you’re just waking up. But every once in a while I remember what it was like when you were little and we’d put you to bed and then eat dinner and watch a movie without having to share every.single.piece of popcorn, or sandwich, or cracker, or soda or glass of tea.

One weekend your Asheville grandparents came to visit, and they brought you –guess what? A giant NEMO! Soon I hope to have the video, because I think the whole Internet should see you scream and kiss Nemo over and over again while mugging for the video camera. So now every time I go anywhere, I scour the aisles for nemo themed anything, because its so freaking cool to see you make the connection and then get so excited when you realize that I brought you a nemo cup! Or spoon! Or squishy bath toy! Yay! Every orange fish you see is Nemo. Every night when you go to bed you must have both the giant Nemo and your sister’s pillow. You’ve become quite attached to lots of your things lately, which is a relief to me because seriously, I was wondering if it was time to throw away your whole toy chest. But it’s not, you’re just fickle, and that’s OK. Today, you arranged all your stuffed animals in the toddler-sized easy chair that you never sit in, and read books to them. I’m not sure how you choose your favorites for the day, but there’s certainly a preference.

Of course, as is your genetic lot in life, you are forever in love with Legos. Legos never get old.

Each month you become more-you. You move lightning fast into childhood and out of babyhood while I blink, while I nap, while I turn my head to check the time. One weekend Mike taught you to say “yummy” and “grandma” and “hula”. Today you casually called “Bye, Daisy!” to the cat as we walked out the door. Sometimes I look at you and I just don’t know where the time has gone-how did you go from this :

to this:

As you know I’ve worried on and off about you and your sister and whether you would bond, and whether you would know she is your sister and not just another grownup, since after all she is taller than your mother. But yesterday when you buckled yourself into your carseat and screamed her name for 20 minutes because you wanted to go find her, all my fears melted away, and I got a glimpse of what our future has in store. Just know this: if she gets you drunk, SHE has to hold your hair back and nurse you through your first hangover. I do not do hangover duty.

Remember when you would eat vegetables? Remember the butternut squash, the black beans, and the broccoli? Dude. I hope, I really do, that some of those nutrients still exist in your tiny, starch infused body. Tonight, every food you ingested was yellow. At least one thing was a banana. And a scrambled egg. I can always fall back on the scrambled egg. Well, and you do eat the dehydrated fruit snacks that cost about a thousand dollars a box. As soon as I get back from selling my kidney we’ll buy you a whole bunch of those, because that crunchy mango sometimes saves both our lives. I swore I wouldn’t allow my freaky relationship with food to taint my relationship with you and food, but it’s hard. I find it more and more difficult to back off and just let you be.

I’ve got a new Life Plan in action now, and as a result of some of the steps I’m taking, you and I spend more face time together during the day. At breakfast, we sit at the table together and talk. We hang out on the porch while I stretch, we read books and snuggle on the couch. There’s usually a point the mid morning when you’ve had enough face time and you point to Hannah’s room and say something like “ picklesnarkefigy movie?” which of course means “it’s time for a movie, you’d better hope you figure out which one in on my agenda today” and then it’s just like the old days except now when you request a movie in Hannah’s room you also request for me to watch with you. Sometimes I do. Sometimes, though, since the dishwasher is broken, I have to refuse so that I can be a Housewife. “Oh, honey”, I’ll say. “I can’t watch with you, I have to work for a while”

“O-Kay….blanket?” And then you’ll ask me to help you pull the blanket up to your chin.

I think one of my favorite new tricks you have, is how you’re (occasionally) able to handle it when we say No. You’re two, so of course it’s not always like this. But wow. I love that you don’t always get what you want, and that sometimes when you don’t, you just smile and move on. Other times, you lay on the floor and scream, but those memories are the ones burned into my brain and therefore not necessary in the written record.

This month was when you discovered band-aids, and also when we discovered your allergy to latex. . I didn’t think I’d be that Mom, the one with the kid who wears a band-aid on every limb. Um. But the thing is-whatever. We pick our battles. You did have a genuine injury involving concrete, your knees, a toe, and some menthol spray. So the first round of band-aids was legit. But now? You go into the bathroom and find the box, and even if it’s empty you bring it to me and hold your knee up. “Knee? Knee! KNEEEEEE!” What can I do? Yesterday I said no. Well, I halfway said no. I put a band-aid on one knee and then told you “only one!” when you held up the other knee. I hope this house is soundproof.

You turned 2 last weekend. To prep you for the “Happy Birthday” song at your party, I started singing it to you Friday morning and sang it all weekend. I wish I could show the Internet how you danced and clapped and shook your head to the chorus! But then when it was time for the party and 20 people were singing, you were very confused and it seemed like the end came as a relief to you.

Two. I want to write that I can’t believe it’s going so fast, and that I can’t stand it and you’re too big, and all those things that are sometimes true. But right now all I can think of is how every day with you is so incredibly fun. And I am so excited and feel so lucky that I get to be here with you tomorrow, and the next day and the next. I get to watch you learn to ride your new trike and play with other kids and drink out of a regular cup instead of a sippy cup and put on your own shirt and climb into your own high chair and before I know it you’ll be going off with your grandfather to learn to drive. And I get to see everything in between. Sometimes I really think my heart might explode, looking at you, and your sister, and your dad and knowing that all of this is my life. It’s all just so much, so much good, that I catch myself flashing tragedy in my head once in a while, paralyzed with the fear of losing one, or all of you, or losing myself. I hope you never know me the way I used to be, when those fears would take over my whole day or week or month or year, and always in the back of my mind I’d be ready for the next terrible thing. Finally, now that flash of fear jolts me back into the moment, reminds me that I am here, we are here, and we are all OK. We are all so much better than OK. We are together and happy and (mostly) content.

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Month 21

Dear ToddlerA,

Guess what you’re getting for your birthday? A HOUSE! Last night I was mentally composing this letter, thinking about how sad I’ll be to leave this place, and how sad it’ll be when you’re older and you don’t remember living in your great-grandmother’s log cabin. I have a picture of your sister 11 year ago, sitting in the high chair you use sometimes, diving into her birthday cake-your grandmother wasn’t supposed to hold out long enough to see your sister’s 1st birthday, but she showed god and everybody who the boss of this whole thing was and threw the party herself. Sometimes I worry that she’d be disappointed in the way we’ve let the yard go, and the amount of frozen food and take-out consumed in her kitchen. And I worry that in the new house, I won’t be able to create the kind of memories that she did, which made me want to come back here again and again. But you know what? The new house? Won’t have spiders. And maybe a spider-free childhood will be enough to make you love it. That may be enough for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good spider-they eat bugs, they are good luck- but I’m kind of over waking up in the middle of the night with spiders on me. And I’m sure you are too, even though as of yet I haven’t heard that story from you. I’m a little glad you can’t talk yet…But we’d better get out of here soon.

A couple of nights ago when I came home from work you were almost ready for bed, but your dad kept you up for a little while so he could show me your new trick. At Christmas we made these awesome reusable bags with pictures of you and your sister on them. Your dad pulled out a bag, pointed to your sister’s picture and asked, “who’s that?”. “HAN-nah!” you squealed with a grin. I kind of wish I had a picture of that moment, when I clapped my hands over my mouth and tears instantly sprung from my eyes. I mean, you’ve been talking for a while and it’s always cute. And we know you love your sister. You’ve taken lately to spending at least some of each day lobbed up in her bed watching her TV and eating scavenged candy that you find no matter how well she hides it. But I’ve never heard you call her name before and I have to say I that her name has never sounded cuter.

Now that I’m working a few nights a week, your bedtime has begun to stretch into the late late night. I need to admit that I’m secretly glad to find you still awake most evenings, and my admonitions lack a credible edge when I try (halfheartedly) to get you to lie down and go to sleep. It’s not that you hate bedtime; we’re not fighting that battle yet. But you do enjoy being up with us, and you have already figured out that being impossibly lovely is the way to make that happen. I’m so glad you’re learning all these things early, ToddlerA, so that you can perfect your manipulative side before you start having boyfriends. Why, I might not need to buy you that copy of The Rules after all! Last night your sister came home and told us how you hijacked her mother’s day card while she was making it, and how you stood, pencil poised over the paper, until she saw you and started moving in your direction. Then you bent down, furiously scribbling on the card and when she got close enough to you, you threw the pencil at her and ran off. I told her to get used to it, and that when you’re older she can pants you in gym or something.

You’ve been dancing for a long time; lately I don’t even have to play the Baby Einstein soundtrack when you’re watching the DVD in the car, as long as there’s a hip-hop station on. But your favorite bust-a-move music is the LeapFrog Alphabet ball. Uh, yeah. I guess we haven’t played enough Prodigy lately, cause you really do love that alphabet song. We keep trying to get you on video, but as soon as you see the camera you grab for the screen. Thanks, Grandpa Mike! (he taught you about how if you turn the little screen around on the video camera you can see yourself)

This month something happened that has made your father as proud and giddy as I’ve ever seen him. This month, you started really building things with the Legos. Santa brought you a huge bag of giant legos, in fashionable girl shades like orange, pink, and chartreuse, thoughtfully packaged in a bag decorated with flowers, because he knew that with us as parents, there would need to be something somewhere in the house that identified you as a girl. (Before you take away Santa’s feminist card, I’ll have you know that Santa found this bag of ecstasy at a consignment store priced an unbelievable 2 dollars. GO Santa!)

Every day since, I’ve watched your father try ever so gently to nudge you toward the bag of legos-applying maybe a little pressure, but not too much lest we end up with a rebellious child (imagine that) who declares she HATES LEGOS. (Oh, the HORROR) He’s been very patient, sitting there on the rug only a little dejected, building towers and dinosaurs and trains, only to be slapped in the face with rejection when you waddle over and go Godzilla on his creations. This would hurt him more if you didn’t cackle in the most delicious way as you survey your destruction. But lately- FINALLY! It’s All Legos, All The Time. You bring me the bag at least once during the morning, and then when I dump them onto the floor you pat the floor beside you, extend your arm out and wiggle your fingers, which in ToddlerA sign language means “You must sit beside me and play with these blocks, and if you do not, I will follow you around the house screeching and trying to climb up your leg. Don’t think about going near your computer, because I’ve already turned it off. It’s LEGO time!” From what I hear you repeat this skit at least once during each evening when I’m at work, acting as if That Mean Daytime Servant won’t ever open the flowered bag for you. Poor, Poor, Little ToddlerA! Under stimulated and ignored. Kid, I have news for you. When you graduate to the Mother Load of Legos? I am just not going to play with all those tiny blocks. That’s why I’m getting you a brother for your birthday. Oh, that’s right. We’re getting you a house. Well, maybe for Christmas.

In the meantime, you seem to be getting along famously with Baby Jack, who sleeps in your bed now. I’m not sure if I mentioned baby Jack last month, but he’s a doll we got you hoping to soften the blow of finding out you aren’t actually our favorite after all, and that at some point you’ll be required to wait your turn, share, and get off mommy’s pregnant belly. When Baby J first came around he was a novelty that quickly became a bore, but at some point recently Baby J got back in your good graces and now he lives in the bed. You’re not quite ready to share your life with Baby J, but having him in your bed at night is comforting. I can relate. Sometimes we hear you singing to Baby Jack at night or in the morning when you wake up. Yesterday when I laid you down for a nap, you insisted on bringing a little book with you, a book full of pictures of babies. Before I even turned away from the crib, you were laying there on our back holding the book up above your face, reading to baby Jack. Sometimes in the morning, if we don’t respond in the arbitrary time you deem appropriate, we hear a telltale thud as Baby jack hits the ground. That’s how we know you’re serious about getting out of bed: Baby Jack hits the floor and then you start bouncing on the mattress, using the side rail as support. That bouncing is no joke. I can hear you bouncing from the kitchen! I personally think we should get you a trampoline but Dr. Safety (aka Dad) says we have to wait. So I guess you’ll be getting your own real baby jack before you ever get a trampoline. I know. I’m not sure I like that idea either. I think the trampoline might be more fun, too.

Easter 139

This month it’s really hit me how incredibly short each phase of your life will be. You are no longer any part baby-you’re all kid now, and I have started to understand why so many people’s children are 2.5 to three years apart. I love love love the little person you have become, ToddlerA, but I will never stop missing the tiny baby that you were. If you ask me “what’s your favorite age” I have to always say “this one” because it’s true. With each new milestone you hit, life with you is more fun. At every turn you’re doing something new and amazing or irritating but so cute; like lately you’ve enjoyed emptying and ENTIRE DRAWER of clothes. But while you’re doing it, you hold gaments up to your chest and excaim, “cuuuute!” before you toss them aside. I don’t know how you learned this so young, but I’m constantly amazed by your ability to toe the line between evil Devil Spawn and quirky, opinionated but disarmingly cute. Please hold onto that skill, kid, because with your genes you’re going to need some way to disarm people.

Easter 079

Lately I’ve been feeling very insecure and high-school-ish. No one seems to like me anymore, and every couple of days I’ll have a minor freak out and convince myself that everyone at work is talking about me when they go out to smoke. I hope you never ever have days like this, ToddlerA. But if you ever do, my greatest wish for you is that you get to wake up every day and greet a tiny person who loves every square inch of you, without question or judgement. My favorite thing about this whole month is that even when I’m in a really bad mood, and even if I haven’t shaved, or washed my hair in a few days, and even if I say “just a minute” 15 times when you need something, you still pat the floor beside you on the rug and ask me to play legos. And you still come take me by the hand and lead me outside when you need a push in your new yard car. And you still want a taste of every thing I eat or drink. You make no assumptions and you take no excuses. You love me even when I have little to give back, and I find myself striving to perk up on those days because it makes you so happy.

I’m so grateful for each second that we have together; I wish I could remember them all. –Love, Mom

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Month 20

Dear ToddlerA,

A few nights ago you and I had a party. Now I’m no stranger to parties, and I’ve been known to sport a 4 a.m. bedtime and then wake up ready to rock at 7:30 on more than one occasion, but I’m older now, and you just can’t keep doing this to me. You started the whining at midnight, and I pretended for a while that I didn’t hear anything, until the shrill sound of your theatrics threatened to sound the bomb alarm down at the volunteer fire department.

I must have been feeling particularly maternal that night. My voice was measured; my words were gentle. I stood beside your bed for a looong time, patting your back and singing. Eventually I retrieved a blanket and pillow from the bedroom and lay down beside your bed for a while. That really got you going, since you and your dad play a similar game, which ends with suckies launched out of the bed and onto his head while you giggle maniacally. Eventually I ended up inside your bed with you, spooning and singing until my legs threatened to fall off. Finally, we settled (HA!) into the guest bed. And you sang, and you kicked me, and you played with my hair, and you patted me in the face. Until 4 in the morning. Baby-it was a fun party. But let’s save the 4 a.m. bedtimes for when you’re a teenager, Mkay?

The morning after our guest room rave, your dad snuck up on me in the bathroom.

“you were my hero last night”, he said.

“I thought I would kill her, at one point”

“yes, but you didn’t let it show. Your voice was so sweet, and you were so patient. It made me love you just a tiny bit more.”

So I have to say thank you for that, because I can always use extra points in the love bank, especially since I’ve been on housework strike because of my new job.

This month’s new phrase is “bye guys!” You might be saying “bye grandpa!” or something else, but I’m going with Bye guys since it’s universal. This morning you added “poo poo!” to the list. You’re not actually ready to deposit the “poo poo!” into a toilet, but when you see a diaper on the floor, you point and proclaim it “poo poo!” Every time we change your diaper, you point at the wipe solution in the spray bottle and squeal, “cold!” I guess if I were a better mother, I’d have some kind of heated contraption to warm up the stuff before we spray your sensitive little baby skin with it. Suck it up, kid. You’re lucky to wear clean clothes.

pics 050

Often we sit back and watch you orating to the yard, and it really seems like you’re speaking a language you know perfectly well. You stand on a stool on the porch, gesticulating like Mussolini, squawking and rattling on in your complicated baby language. I’m beginning to think that if you do ever speak English to us, it will only be because you’ve grown tired of waiting for your housemates to learn your language.

One word we do totally understand is GO. You use “GO” (I am capitalizing it because that word never flutters gently from your mouth. “GO” is a yelling word, a word used in urgency or in anger) quite often, sometimes while pointing meaningfully toward the door, sometimes while pushing your sister away from my vicinity, and other times when you are angry with someone and you want them to get out of your sight. Such was the case last week when, probably for the first time ever, YOUR GRANDDAD scolded you. I know! I never thought it would happen either, and had I not been there I’m not sure I would have believed it. There you were, happily being pushed in your swing, and you put a dirty plastic dolphin in your mouth. Who knows where that dolphin had been! Don’t you know how dirty the ocean is? Fish POOP in there! Your grandpa stopped the swing mid-arc, and said in his soft yet I-really-mean-business voice, “Don’t you put that in your mouth…” Oh, you tried to hold it together, I could tell. I’ve been there, and I could feel your pain. First you glared at him, and then glared at me, but I could see in your eyes that hurt was bubbling below the surface. Your mouth settled into a grim line of pissed-off. And then there was quivering. A little softening around the eyes, and you looked at me for support. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?” your eyes asked me. Finally, a tiny wail escaped your lips, and even though your granddad was trying hard to make it up to you, was swinging you and talking softly in sweet tones to lull you back over to his camp, you reached out to me, done with the swing, a tear falling from your eye, and when he tried to unbuckle you to let you out, you pushed him away with a whole palm to the chest and shouted, “GOOOOO!”

I felt a little sorry for my dad in that moment. I know what it feels like to be the One to Piss Off the Cutest Baby Ever, and that’s not a fun promotion. There might have been a tiny bit of triumph, and then an teensy bit of guilt when I retrieved you from the swing and your little arms circled tight around my neck, safe from the mean man and his silly rules about germs.

Because you are you, and because your grandfather is who he is, our moment of mother-daughter bonding was short lived. Within 2 minutes, you were screaming, running after him on the sidewalk as he left the yard. We had no choice but to hand you over the fence to the Mean Man who feeds you tea and cookies and lets you play all you want to with the goats’ water trough.

pics 063

It’s probably too early to say you’re a tomboy. But I will say this: we bought you a little Baby Jack, complete with little baby genitals, in preparation for the new addition which will someday steal your food and break your toys. You throw him out of the bed when he’s in there, and give him zero attention most of the time. I don’t know if that means anything, and I don’t know if the fact that you love playing with caterpillars and bugs means anything, either, except that you’re a lot like your sister. And when she was 4, she had a My Size Barbie. So we’ll see. Last week you brought me a dead gnat, crushed in your tiny palm. “awwww, awwww!” you exclaimed while shoving the poor executed bug in my face. I think you knew it was dead, and you were hoping I’d do some kind of Lazarus thing with it. I wonder if that’s what you think whenever you see one of the 10 million caterpillars at Melanie’s place. It’s hard to miss the dead ones, especially the ones you squish accidentally with your hands and shoes. When you then see a live one crawling around, do you think that’s the same unfortunate little furry thing, risen from the grave?

Last week I did something I never considered when envisioning my future with you. I started working outside the house, at a job where I have to show up ALONE. I have to say that I do enjoy having conversations with adults for a few hours each night, but I have been rushing to get out early so that I can see you before your dad sends you to bed.

If I weren’t so scared of another Late Night Avery Rave, I would peek into your room every night to fix your covers and touch your delicious velvet baby cheek. I’m so excited to wake up with you and begin our day each morning (okay, excited might not be the most accurate term, but after a little caffeine I could definitely be called enthusiastic), and I’m a little sad when you go down for a nap. I know, I know. I’ve said that before; but especially now that I’m gone most evenings, I really have begun to feel the lightning fast passage of time. It seems as if you are morphing into this little person by measurable events from day to day; I half expect to come home one night and hear “Oh yeah. Avery can count to 10 now, and she says please stop spraying the diaper wipe solution directly on her-it’s too cold!”


Some days I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop-that life cannot possibly be this amazing with this kind of consistency. When I see you walking hand in hand with your sister across the yard; when we find ourselves lounging on the porch after school, playing on the swing, petting cats, eating snacks, and just enjoying the day, I am sometimes filled with such contentment that I wonder if this is all real. Am I not the same person who spent part of last year in bed, rarely changing clothes, hardly eating?

The answer is that I’m not. I’m not the same person even a little bit. The other shoe may never drop, and I have you and your sister and your wonderful father to thank for this gift. My life is better because you’re in it, and I am a better person because I know you. Seeing the word through your eyes has brought colors alive- has made food interesting again, and has most of all created in me hopefulness for the future that I have not known in a long time. Thank you for reminding me what I came here to do.

pics 028

I know that as you grow into your own independent little dictator like your sister, you will need me less and those feelings of “what the hell am I even doing here anyway” may surface again, and so I write these letters to you each month to capture what I was too naïve to think would ever go away when your sister was little, and to give you a written record when you’re a teenager and you think I have never loved you, that once I did love you just a little bit.

You’re a perfect piece to an almost-complete puzzle, Tiny. I can’t imagine my life without you.



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