Thankful Thursday

For fall

For flat shoes

For quiet days

For hot tea

For libraries

Dear Baby a,

I woke the other night out of a dead sleep, chilled to my bones, breathless. The nightmare echoed in my head, behind my eyes. It was about you, little girl. It was a fear-filled, vivd nightmare about some of the most horrible things that could happen to a little girl.

So I laid awake for a while and let the fear of all the nastiness and ugliness in the world just sit beside me. The nastiness chided me, "how will you ever protect that innocent little girl from my horror?" "You know you will not be able to be with her every second of every day." "You have heard, firsthand in confidential rooms, countless stories of horror upon horror."

I was blindsided by the differences of what it will mean to be a mother to a daughter and a son. But as the nastiness sat there, cackling at my mother's heart, I found new strength. I became even more aware of all the things I want to see you learn, as a girl and a woman.

How to be proud of your femininity. How it is a sign of strength, not weakness. How you can be powerful and gentle. How to be resilient.

How to speak to any nastiness that sits by your bed in the darkest hours. And how to find rest.

Love,
Mom

Bumps

 Sometimes you just have to bump it out.

2 Years

Somehow, against all my disbelief, you are two years old. This year you have gone from first words and first steps to running and sentences. It's amazing how quickly and yet how slowly some of these changes happen. I feel lucky to have modern media to record random daily snippets of your voice at 14 months, the way you couldn't quite pronounce the "sh" of "shoes." And yet today you say this word perfectly. When did that happen? I don't know. I missed the day, the moment you could. Most likely I was there, but oh my baby boy, how these things pass by so quickly.

This year you have challenged me to be even more patient than last year. You have challenged me to know where the balance is between you, me, and our family - whose needs come first right in this moment? You have challenged me to be more silly, to be more present, to expect both less and more (of myself, of you).

I don't have 24 things to say this month. Instead, I have 24,000 times the amount of love I had for you the moment you were born. Somehow, against all the logic I thought I understood, you have shown me how love grows each day.

At 24 months old, you tell stories. You still love being outside. You play with your toys, like actually play with them (you motion your little people to climb aboard the bus and will say "up, up, up, ok, bye bye!"). You laugh with pure joy. You furrow your brow when reading books. You can climb and descend steps completely unassisted. You have asked baby sister to come out of mama's belly. You point out letters on any sign or vehicle. You love milk. You wrestle with increasing strength. You are starting to put your shoes on and off. You enjoy laying in your crib upon waking; you are a slow riser.

You know that your birthday consists of "presents and ice cream and 'Happy Birthday!'" And what a happy, happy day it is.

Overheard

Me: (silently pushing Teddy in the swing)

Teddy: Mama, Dada, Teddy go in big airplane!

Me: Mama and Dada and Teddy flew in a big airplane?

Teddy: Yes! (pauses for a minute, then adds) And big airport!

Me: Oh, yes, we were in the big airport.

Teddy: And rode in school bus!

Me: Yes, we rode in a school bus to get to the airport.

Filed under Teddy's First Story and Air Travel Blows the Mind and School Busses are Rad

Thankful Thursday

For cooler weather

For kind strangers

For hot drinks

For stickers

For paper towels

Dear Baby a,

My firecracker, my little jumping bean, my constant companion, you are ever present these days. Physically, you become more obvious by the day - my belly gets rounder and your kicks are now visible. You remind me to slow down, to savor these fleeting days when life is fragile yet steadily protected.

We are dreaming of nursery colors and rocking chairs. And I imagine what it will be like to hold your weight in my arms surrounded by greys and whites. What will it be like to feed you at 2am (and 4am and 6am) rocking in that chair or this one? I know I will be tired, I know I will have moments of silently pleading you back to sleep. But you know what I can't imagine? I can't imagine how my heart will grow and grow when I look at you. It's not that I worry I won't love you. I worry because I know I will love you in the same heartbreakingly fervent way I love your brother.

I know what it is like to love a child, a fire that sweeps in and takes over small corners of your heart that were starving of oxygen. You are my new fire. I can only imagine what places in my heart you will bring to light.

Love,
Mom