She Likes Purple

Happy birthday, KC

Dear Son,

I haven't written much about the day you were born, and there is one, simple reason for this: sometimes trying to use words to describe something indescribable is silly. I'll never forget that day, ever ever ever, and it's the one day of my life I'm not worried about documenting because it just takes one moment to bring me right back there. That day was one year ago exactly, and it was one of the two best days of my life. The other? The day I put on a big dress, drank too much and took your dad's (and your!) last name.

This entire year, through milestones and sleepless nights and exhaustion and all those germs (seriously, when will that stellar immune system of yours kick in?), there has been one constant thread of thought for me and that's been that I can't possibly deserve a boy such as you. You prove the humbling fact that sometimes our realities exceed our dreams because on the best and brightest day before you, I could never have imagined you. You blow every dream I ever had so far out of the water, I now forgo daydreams and just look at pictures of you instead.

I recently re-read some of the emails I wrote you this year and one of them said, "sometimes I think your dad has been waiting his whole life to talk to you." I don't remember writing that, but I'm so glad I did as that seems to be the best way to say what your dad and I constantly feel, that we've been waiting our whole lives to talk to you and play with you and know you. We had it good before, and we still miss all those mornings we used to sleep till noon, but how did we make it so long without you? I'm sometimes dumbfounded because, my oh my, you're so much fun.

I regret some things from the past year and most of those regrets come in the shape of how I fell short of being the mom you deserve. My brow was furrowed a lot, my voice was raised too often, my muscles tense and wound up and I probably said "no" to you 85 kajillion times. More than anything else in this great, wide world I want for you, I want you to enjoy your life. I want you to be happy, to have loads and loads of fun, to be a kid for as long as possible. There has never been a greater reason in this world for me to lighten the hell up than you. You make me want to forget the laundry and play with a soccer ball for an hour straight. You remind me that schedules are good, but going to the park on a whim is better. Responsibility and paying our bills in a timely fashion and grocery shopping are all important, but making vroom-vroom! noises and laughing really loudly and eating dessert first, well those things are necessary.

I wanted you to be a boy. Have I ever told you that? There's this weird unspoken rule that women want girls and men want boys but, no no, not me, Kyle. I wanted a truck-loving, rolling-in-the-dirt, smelly boy. For a lot of hard-to-articulate reasons but mostly because I knew I needed you to breathe life back into me. I take things too seriously and I knew, in my bones, that I needed you to help me loosen up, forget all those crazy rules and just smear pears on my face every once in a while. You are my boy, my guy, my man. I knew it was going to be you.

I made this video for you (fine, for me too) and included one song I will print out and frame and hang on your wall until you are a surly teenager who could care less his mother loves him, who will roll his eyes and take it down and sneak out the house and think up new and creative ways to piss me off. Even then, I will say these words in my head (while thinking of new and creative ways to ground you) because if there's only one thing you should know, Kyle, it's this: you'll never have to do a thing to earn my love. It's an unchangeable part of who you are, like your brown eyes. You'll doubt that love a lot, especially when I won't let you do something you really, really want to do, like act stupid. But, no matter what, I love you I love you I love you.

How long do you want to be loved
Is forever enough, is forever enough
How long do you want to be loved
Is forever enough
Cause I'm never, never giving you up

Untitled from shelikespurple on Vimeo.

Happy birthday, buds.

Love,

Your Mama

Eleven months

Dear Kyle,

ELEVEN. MONTHS. That would be one month before twelve months and that's....well, that's nearly a year old, is what it is. I know I'm going to be a mess next month, so let me say this now: I remember so clearly, so vividly, where I was and how I felt when I wrote this letter to you two days before I said hello to you face-to-face. I remember the fear, more than anything else, because it dawned on me that day that I had no clue what I was doing. Before that I always had time in front of me to properly freak out and on that day, I didn't have much time. SO I FREAKED OUT. Depending on what day you ask your father, he may say I haven't really stopped freaking out since. I still have no clue what I'm doing.

I imagine I'm still guessing by the time you read this, too.

Yet, somehow, we're here. Eleven months later with you in one piece and me in one piece.

We're making it.

We had Christmas this month! And you were over the gifts about five minutes in, which is why we got you a total of three things, four if we're counting stocking stuffers, and I hope, hope, hope we continue to keep our Christmases light on GIFTS! and WRAPPING PAPER! and TOYS! and heavy on the three of us baking and looking at lights and playing and snuggling and being super lazy on the couch together. We tried to start a lot of traditions this year, because it was your first year and that's a big deal to me, but the most important tradition is the one where we have a nice day together, no drama, no guilt, no stress. Just us.

We also went to California this month, to visit some family and see the place I grew up, and about an hour into the trip, as we were stuck on the runway and you were screaming and the eyes of those around us glared down on me, I decided giving you these fun adventures was totally and completely overrated. NEVER TRAVELING AGAIN! I said to Mike, and I HATE TODAY! I said to anyone who would listen, but then we took you to a museum during our visit and to the zoo and to meet my favorite people, who you may not have met otherwise, and although I am very good at freaking the hell out and wringing my hands, I'm also very good at not letting those reactions stop me from doing things anyway. The flight back, I should say, was a freaking dream. The Universe is funny.

One other fun milestone was the welcoming of a new year and a new decade. 2010! What a fun ring that has? We decided to wake you up right before midnight, and I know a few mothers need to pick their mouths up off the floor, but your dad and I are weird, and we thought it'd be fun to have you with us as the clock struck midnight. You were in such a good mood and were all, "Hey, guys! What's up? Where's the party at?" And we kissed you and yelled "HAPPY NEW YEAR BUDS!" and you beamed and laughed and then went back to sleep ten minutes later. When I think of how lucky I am to have you, to know you, to be YOUR mom, I'll think of that night.

You get angrier and more woeful these days when things aren't handed right to you or when things are taken away from you and there's nothing cuter or funnier than a nearly one year old throwing a tantrum, so forgive us for all the times we've laughed directly at you when you are flailing about. You're just so cute when you're all red-faced and angry! That'll grow old, I KNOW, probably next week even, but you're a funny kid, no matter what mood you're in. I have Mom Eyes, no way around it. But, yeah, I'll be reminding you constantly of how losing that last Goldfish isn't exactly worth all those tears.

You also wave "BYE!" and lay your head down on any nearby surface when you're sleepy and throw your Cheerios or goldfish onto the floor, so you can see Molly race to retrieve them. You love the bath so much and literally try to climb into it if we don't put you in fast enough. You play better by yourself and love your soccer ball the most. Your hair is getting longer and crazier and you are still the dirtiest child I have ever met. I can't keep up with the dirt and caked-on food and snot and pieces of grass left in your hair. Oh, I love it about you though. My boy! My son!

Eleven months ago I was terrified about so many things, and I'm still terrified about a lot, that's just how life goes, always something to worry about. But being your mom doesn't scare me a bit anymore, and it hasn't since the moment I met you. I was always meant to know you. I was always meant to do this. I may not be an expert, I may not be traditional, I may not be perfect, but I love being your mother.

And I love you.

Your Mama

Ten Months

Dear Kyle,

I'm already beginning to plan your first birthday party, can you believe that? Well, you probably can because by now I'm sure you know your mom really, really likes birthdays, and kicking off the planning two months in advance is just how I roll. I'm toying with your theme and the cake and the favor bags and SO MUCH and people I talk to roll their eyes and sigh and look at me like I've lost my damn mind, but it's just that if I can't celebrate this year (this year with you) then there's never been a reason to celebrate anything, ever.

Before I start sobbing about having an ALMOST-ONE YEAR OLD OMG, let's talk about what you've been up to this month. Oh, my, what HAVEN'T you been up to this month? There is not a moment of peace in our home between the hours of 7 am and 7 pm. Your body is flipped into the ON! position all day long and when I look away even for a second, you somehow get a hold of and are chewing on my laptop cord or Molly or a shoe or the wall, and I'm not even kidding about that last one. Everything is in your mouth, and there are various times of the day when I see you chewing on something and think, Oh, let that be a days-old Cheerio and not something sharper and more damaging to your internal organs. You love to move, it's your most favorite thing to do, and if you had your way, we'd never sit down.

You also like to be chased, which is ridiculously adorable since you can't exactly go far, and I'm doing a very, very bad parenting thing by encouraging this game, I know, but it's impossible to resist making you laugh. You start crawling, sneakily look behind you with a mad twinkle in your eye, so I start to run toward you and you shriek with laughter and try to crawl away as fast as you possibly can. It's so fun, especially the part where I reach you, scoop you up and kiss you all over while you laugh and laugh.

You picked your belly off the floor this month, so even though you've been army-crawling since you were seven months, you are really crawling now. And no matter how many toys we spread around the house, there are a few things you without-a-doubt go to when we set you down to crawl: outlets (baby cliche!), dust bunnies (yum), Molly or the small basketball your Gramps gave you.

A couple other cool things happened this month, one being your dad has new work hours, so he's now home with you during the week. You have adventures and play together and sing songs, and he sends me pictures from Kohl's or Fry's or Home Depot or wherever else his to-do list has taken you both, and you look on top of the world in each picture. Life is funny in its unpredictability, so who knows what our routine will be like in six months or a year, so I know your dad is sopping up this time with you and enjoying every moment. Although, without fail, I come home to you either 1) wearing some god-awful, doesn't-match outfit or 2) the pjs you were wearing when I left. Buds, I'm sorry your dad thinks he has such stellar fashion sense especially because he doesn't, but seeing you two together waving from the couch each morning as I walk out the door is the most beautiful sight in the world. You have a dad who adores you and loves being with you. I've said it before, and I'll say it a million times more, I'm sure, but he's the best gift I could ever give you, and I hope no matter what happens in life or how much you hate us for your early curfew or for making you study or for telling you to get off the phone at 10 pm even though you really want to tell your girlfriend you love her just one more time, you know that having a good, decent, honest father is going to take you so far in life.

A couple other cool things that happened this past month were: 1) snow! and 2) turkey! We had your first Thanksgiving and your first snowfall within a week of each other, and you were pretty stoked about both until 30 seconds in when you realized 1) snow gives you a wet butt and 2) turkey isn't pureed pears. I love that you'll try anything even if you get this look on your face seconds in that says, "Yeah, I'd rather not be doing this. Please stop making me."

Finally, another new thing, one much less fun, is the SCREAMING! The SCREAMING! has descended upon our house, and if we leave the room or you want out of your high chair or you want out of your crib or you want more food or you want the remote or, let's sum it up like this, YOU WANT SOMETHING WE'RE NOT GIVING YOU, you SCREAM! It's not a cry, no, it's a EEEAAAAHHHH. EEEAAAAHHHHHHHHH. EEEAAAAHHHHHHHHH. And you get louder and louder until I give you whatever it is you want or throw myself in front of traffic, whichever I do first. You are cute, kid, and sweet and funny, too, but can we stop with the screaming? I'll totally bend that early curfew I mentioned earlier.

Sometimes you wake up on the wrong side of your crib and for the first, cranky hour of the morning, I go through my mother check-list: teething? no, tired? no, hungry? no, WHAT THEN? WHAT WHAT WHAT? And sometimes it dawns on me, maybe you're just in a bad mood. That's certainly OK, your mom and dad get in bad moods often enough, but I go straight to FIX IT mode, and I really want to stop doing that. I want you to be moody, if you want to be moody. It's OK to not be in a good mood. What's not OK is to throw your bottle/pacifier/toy/whatever is in your reach into your mom's face to convey that bad mood. Make a note of that.

You are still a full-of-life, sweet-smiled, happy boy, though. I think back to how I was as a kid often, and although I had a pretty good childhood, lots of cool experiences and such, I remember taking on the happiness of others from a really young age. I wanted no conflict, no stresses, and so I'd do whatever I could to smooth the waters. I used to sense fights before they'd happen, by the inflection in someone's voice or the look in someone's eyes, and I'd try and change the subject or sing a song or something. I wanted peace, and I tried to make it happen. It was a tough thing to carry as a little girl, and when I look at you, I see such pure joy that I hope I can preserve in you for as long as possible. I hope I never give you my happiness to take care of, and I hope you never have to worry about keeping the peace around you. I hope that you can take this ten-month feeling and carry it for years, this carefree, happy-screeching way of yours. You deserve to worry about your happiness and your peace for as long as possible, until you have your own kids, even, and pace the floors with worry as a hobby.

You should also know that with one simple look of yours, one open-mouthed grin, slobbering kiss or cuddle, you heal a million wounds.

Just by being you, Ky, all the weight I carried before you fell to the ground. We've smashed the weight together.

I love you, Buds.

 

Love,

Your Mama

Nine months

Dear Kyle,

I carried you for nine months, give or take, and now you've been alive in this world for nine months, too. Holy shit. Sorry, son, but your mom says shit sometimes, and I'm sure this isn't brand-new information to you as you've probably heard me say shit a number of times (many directed at reality television programs, no doubt). I also say shit a lot when the circumstances are mind-boggling, such as when you are nine months old.

You'll hear often in life that time flies and for a long, long time that saying will mean little more to you than a silly thing boring, old adults say to fun, young kids. You probably think, well, yeah time flies WHEN YOU GO TO BED AT 7 O'CLOCK EACH NIGHT. But, I want you to remember something, and I want you to remember it well. Keep it close to you forever and ever and then some: HOLY SHIT, TIME REALLY DOES FLY. 

I have one of the best memories of anyone I've ever met, and your dad will completely agree with me on this because my memory has been the cause of 9 kajillion fights we've had over the years. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T REMEMBER THAT WE WENT TO THAT WALGREENS FIVE YEARS AGO AND BOUGHT BUBBLE BATH?" "Uh, because no one but you would remember that." My memory is eerily good, it is, and I remember so vividly during your first week of life as I sat, unshowered, on the couch talking on the phone to a coworker who told me her sister-in-law's favorite baby age is nine months. I cried as soon as I hung up the phone. Nine months? I had to wait until NINE MONTHS to get to the good stuff?

We're here now. You're nine months old.

Holy shit, time flies.

(And we've been rolling around in the good stuff for ages, sweet boy. If it gets better than it's been, we're about to get spoiled rotten.)

You're doing so much right now, I don't even know where to start. You are pulling up to standing and weeble-wobble walking with our help. When I walk by your room, and you're awake, you stand up, peer over the edge and smile like, "Hello! I'm here! Let's get this day STARTED already!" We're teaching you to wave, and sometimes you get it, sometimes you don't. When you do get it, you look like you're having some type of fit because you don't actually wave as much as you jerk your arm around in the air. You high-five, too! And whenever we put our hands in the air and say, "high-five buddy!" you break into the biggest grin and slap our hands. We high-five over everything, and it never gets old. After months of saying, "da da da daaaaa dadadada" you finally made the "mama" sound this month, but not in a loving way when I walk through the door or when you just need something only your mama can give you, but only when you are MELTING DOWN (usually on the changing table). You sob, with real, fat tears rolling down your face and say, "Mamamamamama. Maaaaaaama." As if, "HOW COULD YOU BE DOING THIS TO ME, MAMA? HOW COULD YOU HATE ME SO MUCH AS TO CHANGE MY DIRTY PANTS."

Sometimes mama drinks straight from the bottle in addition to saying shit.

When you're in your highchair, and we walk out of view, you twist your entire body around to get a look at us. You still fall instantly asleep in the car, and sometimes your dad picks you up from school, and you haven't slept but 15 minutes the entire day, but as soon as that ignition starts, you're out. If gas were free, Kyle, we'd never leave the car. We'd live there, just driving all around to give you proper naps. You've started snuggling a lot this month, and the other night we brought you into bed with us and watched a show, all three of us together, and you were resting on my pillow and had your arm draped across your dad, and, well, that was a pretty ridiculously awesome moment.

This was also a tough month because you got really sick for the longest period of time yet (specifically: too damn long), and you were not your usual, happy self. You were also teething while you were sick and somehow your easy-going, fun-loving, awesome little baby personality morphed into ... uh ... well ... how do I say this? Fine, an asshole. I'm sorry, Kyle, but it's true. You were in pain! You were sick! I would have been an asshole too! I'm an asshole even when I'm not in pain and sick! But, you screamed ALL DAY LONG for an entire week, and, well, the entire house was just a miserable place to be. There was much sighing and collapsing in exhaustion and praying to ANYONE WHO WOULD LISTEN.

On Tuesday, I walked in from work and you were with your dad, and you LIT UP when you saw me and did that squawky, high-pitched, excited thing you do whenever you see your favorite people or your bottles. I lifted you up and said, "Ah, buds, we're glad to have you back."

Something I've really struggled with this month is not letting anyone else's thoughts about our family affect me, even people we care about. I heard something recently that someone who is supposed to love us said about me, about my mothering, and it wasn't nice. I cried and was down and couldn't have felt crappier if I had tried. Then I remembered something, and it's something I want you to remember too: no matter what you do -- and you could save baby seals all day and night for the rest of your life -- someone is going to think you're doing it wrong, that you didn't save that one seal quite right, even someone who's supposed to love you unconditionally. Focusing on what THEY think will never, ever work. Because there will always be someone who thinks you suck. Always. No matter if you shower them with candy and compliments. They'll think, "SNICKERS? I WANTED KIT-KATS!" No one lives in our home with us. No one knows what songs we sing or what dances we dance or what games we play or what our bedtime routine is like or how you splish-splash in the bath and get all wide-eyed and happy when you hear the water turn on. No one knows you are only ticklish on one side of your stomach or that if I put my hand in front of your face, you instantly stop fussing as if it's the most fascinating thing you've ever seen. They don't know that you like banana puffs more than apple puffs and that you have this little, teeny birthmark on your left leg.

People get to have their opinions, that's just their right. And we get to go on living our beautiful little lives as we choose.

They may judge, Kyle, but we'll have the last laugh. We're going to laugh forever.

Nine beautiful, crazy, incredible, intense, amazing, messy, perfect months. Holy shit.

Love,

Your Mama

Eight months

Dear Kyle,

You're just across the room as I write this. You're tossing your pacifier off your exersaucer and then looking at me as if to say, "Well, come on now, fetch that." I smile and say, "No, love. Mama hates that game." So you go on to something else, smiling even. I'm relishing in how easy-to-please you are this month, how quick to distract and how without-effort it is to turn your attention on a new toy or gadget or hair ball. I know one day the stubbornness that is programmed into your DNA will take over, and it won't be so easy.

Oh, but for now. For now you are the greatest delight and the most fun you've ever been. I've been saying this awhile now, yes I know, but this month, more than any month since I first met you, something has shifted in me. I've begun feeling desperate to see you, spend time with you, hold tightly to this time. When I leave you now, it hurts more than it ever has before.

Forgive me, Ky, but the fact that you're actually going to grow up and become a real person with opinions and thoughts and the ability to move away from me and never call to check in hit me like a semi-truck this month, and I find myself -- more than ever -- longing to press pause, to go back and slap that woman who wished away your newbornness because, my god, it's all over so soon, and all we have are words and pictures and memories to cling to in the wake of time. Those are lovely, don't get me wrong, but you can't snuggle with any of them. You can't take in the scent of memories. You can't get intoxicated over the belly laugh of a word. I miss you every moment I'm with you because I finally understand that just as soon as I drink that moment in, it will be gone. It's over just like that.

I left you this month, for five long-but-lovely days. I had an incredible time, and I dedicated post after post to how much fun I had with friends I hope I still have when you read this. I call it my soul-healing vacation. When I was driving home after my trip, I thought about having to work the next day and how unfair it is that I can't be with you all the time, how I sometimes hate being the kind of person who thrives when working outside the home, and who needs a circle of friends that extends past your dad and Molly. I sometimes hate I'm this person, this person with a desire to live beyond our front door. When it comes down to it, what's inside our house is all that matters, yet I leave sometimes, and I want to try to explain to you why. When I was driving home from this trip, I got stuck by a train, and I was livid! I wanted to be with you, and I was just miles from you, and how dare a TRAIN prevent me from holding you! When I finally got home, you were fast asleep, but I tiptoed into your room and began sobbing before I even saw you. I could sense you, breathing in-and-out, and it broke my heart like it always does. That gentle, natural, beautiful breathing of a sleeping baby. It's enough to fix all the world's problems. I picked you up and out of your crib while your dad shook his head from the couch because he sometimes can't believe he married someone so damn girlie. I can't ever remember a moment so perfect, me holding you after five days of only seeing you in blurry, bad cell-phone pictures. And I thought, if I had never left, I would never have known how incredible it felt to come home to you. I leave sometimes because nothing reminds me how much I love you like being apart from you, and sometimes the most beautiful moments of parenthood come from the perspective that distance brings. 

Kyle, I know it's with the help of rose-colored-parent-glasses and the ease of hindsight that I say this, but you are such a damn joy. You are an incredibly happy and delightful baby. You scream, sure, and when we don't hand you your bottles RIGHT AS WE MAKE THEM you freak out like a boy who very obviously got his love of food from his mother. You've also been on a very frustrating nap strike the last month or so. You've decided real napping sucks it big time but cat napping, well, that's really where it's at. Who cares what your mother thinks of that. (Note: she thinks it blows.) You will not stay still to save your life, and although every parent understands this, how hard it is to contain mobile babies, you are ever-so-slightly different, I suspect. You deserve to be on the cast of Nitro Circus Junior. You don't just try to get away, you try to HURL YOURSELF AWAY. You actually climbed out of your exersaucer the other day, and, ha, I wish I were exaggerating for comedic effect when I say that, but you actually worked like hell to get out of a contraption that's sole purpose is to contain and entertain babies. YOU DEFIED FISHER PRICE, CHILD. I also found you just this morning with a bloody lip. You were smiling like a fool with blood all over you, and, yeah, MAMA DOES NOT LIKE TO BE GREETED LIKE THAT FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. We think you were probably chewing on your crib and fell, your lip getting caught in the crossfire. Or, possibly a troll crawled into your crib and you got into a fist-fight. Regardless, I am seeing glimpses this month of what parenting a boy is going to be like and on the one hand, man, it's going to be a ridiculously wild adventure but on the other hand, holy shit, my heart and nerves were not made for this. But, aside from all that exhaustion and blood-pressure raising, Buds, you are the sweetest, happiest, most fun baby I could have ever hoped for. You are just amazing, kid. Simple as that.

You will hold a rock and study it for 18 straight minutes because, whoa, what the hell is THIS, I must figure it out, and then you will try to WALK WHEN YOU CANNOT WALK and you will bruise your head from that attempt, and when I think back to our first night in the hospital when your dad and I stared at each other and asked, in all seriousness, "WHO MADE THIS CHILD? HE DOES NOT LOOK LIKE EITHER OF US?" I laugh because, oh baby, you are so your dad's kid. Your dad, the man who will stand in Fry's for TWO DAMN HOURS when choosing a modem cable but who will then attempt a flip on his snowboard just to see if he can do it. You are his boy, his buddy, his buds. I'm so glad you remind me of him. It's heartwarming, it's comforting, it's all I ever wanted, but I'm starting to get a little selfish this month. I'm starting to look for anything that will remind me of, well, me. I know I had a part in making you, I REMEMBER LABOR FAIRLY VIVIDLY, but when I look deep into your eyes, I have to really search for traces of myself.

So, you can imagine my sort of selfish joy when it started to become very apparent that you don't give a damn how messy you are. Your grandma has said so many times how your dad hated getting dirty as a kid. He'd FREAK OUT whenever he got wet or messy, and would rather play cleanly and orderly thank you very much, but I was the exact opposite of this. I was a dirty, messy kid who turned into an adult who still spills food down the front of her shirt.

And look at you:

A beautiful mess. Just like your mama.

Eight months. Buds, how did this happen? How are we already here? How can such a contradiction even exist, the deep desire to see who you'll become and the deep desire to go back, for just a moment, to who you were. I don't know how it's possible, but it is. It's the one thing I'm sure of. That the gift of time is also a curse. That I long, equally, for the past and the future. You are eight months old, baby boy, and I am both stunned and humbled. I'm both terrified and ecstatic. I spend every day eager to see what lies ahead while grieving what came before. If being a mother has taught me anything it's that life is ridiculous. It's a nonsensical ride, and we do our best to hold on and enjoy ourselves while we can. We forever try to live in the moment because it really is all we have.

I had a book shower when I was pregnant, and so you have a bookcase full of books already. There is one I read you a lot because it's my favorite, and it's not even a classic or that well-illustrated, but it's a story of a busy mom, you can tell, and sometimes she's at work and sometimes she's at the grocery store and sometimes she's upset and sometimes she's in the sandbox with her baby boy, but no matter what, no matter what she's doing, she loves her son. The name of the book is "I Love You All The Time." And this is how I feel, as I sit in traffic and talk to the Terminix guy very sternly about why there are ANTS IN OUR KITCHEN and when I am in a meeting and when I am at dinner with the girls. When I am blogging and when I'm doing the dishes and when I'm feeding you your dinner -- my favorite time of my day -- and when I'm folding your little-but-so-much-bigger-than-before clothes into their drawers and when I'm cooking dinner. Whenever, wherever.

Oh, Kyle, I love you all the time.

Love,

Your Mama

Seven months

Dear Kyle,

The months are zipping by at warp speed. Just when I finish writing you one letter, it's time to write another. Yet, there's still so much to say, so many ways in which you're different than you were last month, last week, last night.

This was the month of the Very Scary Incident that happened to you and me, well, to you, but I was there watching in horror, and I'm the only one who will remember, so to us. Because of this Incident, you have been placed on a somewhat-strict all-baby-food diet until your first birthday, and I've already made a mental note to plan that first-year appointment before that first-year party, so you can partake in the ridiculous tradition of being presented with a sugary treat you haven't a clue what to do with, but will shove in your mouth like you shove everything else -- my phone, the remote, Molly.

This was also the month a very Epic Cold and Cough descended upon our family. Not swine flu, although I had us all tested for that more than once -- your mother responds to the news just as CNN hopes all Americans would respond to it, with deep and ridiculous paranoia -- but just your average cold with a side of sinus infection for me, ear infection for you and THE WORLD IS ENDING for your father, who handles being sick the way Dick Cheney handles a gun: very, very poorly. In fact, the only member of our clan who handled the sickness in stride was you. You were the only one who continued to sleep just fine, eat just fine, smile just fine, play just fine, look adorable just fine. While we moaned and complained and did half-ass jobs of keeping things afloat, you rolled with it all, a snotty, coughing mess, but just fine.

You're already the coolest one of us, and I don't think that would stun a single person who knows you.

You began army crawling/belly scooting this month -- although more than one person pointed out that what you do is absolutely not crawling, hate to break the news to you ROSY-EYED MOTHER, although I say if you're MOBILE and getting into your DIAPER BAG and FLINGING those diapers across the room, crawling is a fine label. It's not that I wanted you to crawl at barely seven-months old. I very much liked being able to leave you anywhere and know that the worst that would happen was a minor meltdown or a tongue bath courtesy of Molly. Now, I have to be aware and attentive and, my god, I can hardly believe this job doesn't come with some type of compensation. Obama, add that to the list.

You also sit up and stand with our very-needed assistance these days. Or with the cocktail ottoman's assistance, whichever is most handy. You have started drinking out of a sippy cup. You prefer corn over squash and bananas over apples. You love when I clap! Oh, man, you can be having one of those meltdowns, the kind where you singe my eyebrows with the decibels you reach, and all I have to do is clap merrily and you're all, HA! HAAAAA! I LOVE LIFE! DO IT AGAIN! You say da-da-da-da-da-da over and over, hours on end, but you direct it at no one, and you are definitely not SAYING da-da to your actual da-da, but HOO-BOY does your da-da sure enjoy thinking you are. If you say it on your changing table, DIRECTING IT AT THE WALL, he'll come running in the room. "He's calling me! What's up buddy, what do you need?" When he calls while I'm home with you and hears you in the background, he'll say, "Aw, he knows it's me!" And he sure likes to think you say da-da because you prefer him, which is why I have kicked him so much this month, Kyle. Sorry about all that domestic abuse we've already exposed you to.

What's more, this is the month we found a new day care and a new pediatrician and THANK SWEET JESUS, we like both. You probably thought we were just the most indecisive bunch of crazies you've ever met with the way we've schlepped you to a new facility and new doctor every couple of months. It really does take a village to raise a child, and we just wanted our village to consist of awesome, cool people who didn't routinely suck or make your ears bleed.

You do this thing, and just like that adorable little sound you used to make after you sneezed, I imagine this will change as you grow, so I really want to remember this thing you do. Whenever you're tired, you open and close your hands on whatever surface you can find: my arm, my leg, the couch, Mr. Pup. I think it's the repetitive motion that soothes you, and while one hand is doing that, the other is playing with your ear. This is what you do, every day and night, when you're ready for a nap or bed. I'm so glad you can sooth yourself, although I really can't take credit for your ability to do so, it happened so randomly and haphazardly, but when I watch you start to get sleepy and start stretching that hand of yours out and in, out and in, I know my favorite time of day is about to start. Not the going-to-sleep part, although that's nice, too, I won't lie, but the sleepy-baby part. As most parents can attest, the sleepy baby brings on the cuddly baby and that's the very Best Baby of All. You curl into me as I carry you to your room and that walk, with you gripping me tighter then you ever do during the day when you're all WOUND UP! and GOING GOING GOING! and LET ME REACH FOR THIS AND THAT AND GIMME GIMME GIMME!, that walk is why I became a mother. Every day I'm reminded again and again.

The other day, your day care teachers wrote a note on your send-home sheet that said you seemed hungry after your bottle. You cried when they took it away and you just wanted to suck on the empty bottle and shake it around when they gave it back to you, and I laughed and said, "Oh, no. He just likes to play with it! He's not still hungry. It's just this thing he does." For a very long time when people would ask me questions about you I'd look at them like, "Huh, yeah, no fucking clue the answer to that, sorry." Babies are just such hard nuts to crack! And what's really annoying is they keep changing on you and just when you think you have this ONE THING figured out BAM POW they totally school you. It's so humbling and aggravating and when people would ask, "Oh is that his hungry cry?" Or, "Is he just gassy or fussy?" Or "Why on earth does he do THAT?" I'd look them square in the face and say, "YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE, SO HERE, TAKE A STAB AT IT." You're not born with all the knowledge one baby requires and that's hard on a new mom. I don't know what he wants! I don't know what to do! MY GOD, SIX-WEEK OLD, USE YOUR WORDS! And, then, somehow, someway, we get to know these babies of ours. We're able to start answering the questions and filling in the blanks for confused strangers and we're able to laugh off the quirks other people don't get with a simple, "Oh, that's just something he does." And we're not guessing as much any more because we get it, we know, we're the mamas.

Yes, now I know you well, and more than anything else I ever want you to know, there's this: I absolutely, unconditionally love who you are.

 

I love you, Buds.

Your Mama

Six months

Dear Kyle,

Six months? No, that can't be. Three months, maybe, but it can't possibly be six months from when you were plopped onto my chest in the delivery room. It just can't be six months from when you looked into my eyes, annoyed as all hell to have been taken away from the all-day donut buffet you had snacked on for nine straight months. But, somehow, someway, it is. Six months today.

This is a hard letter for me to write. I remember the mom I was when you were first born, unable to be convinced that this day would ever come. Time stood still those first few weeks, and when someone mentioned THEIR six-month-old baby, it was as if they were talking about owning a mythical creature. I simply couldn't believe we'd ever reach this day, and here I go with the tired-but-true parenting cliches: my god, the time flew right by. My god, why didn't I enjoy every damn moment of those first few weeks because, MY GOD, they're gone forever now? I miss them. I miss them so much more than I ever thought I would and even more than I was told I would. Every day I try to conjure up that baby you used to be, the little, skinny, screaming baby who threw me for a freaking loop when you entered the world. That baby is continually replaced by a bigger, more smiley baby, and with each passing day the memory of my wee little guy fades. And my heart breaks over and over and over.

Women have been saying good-bye to their newborns for centuries. All these emotions are totally Universal and Normal and Ordinary. And there are plenty of lovely silver linings that we are offered to cushion the heartache. Such as:

YOU SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT NOW!

(Thank you.)

For a couple months of your life, you'd go down for bed easily and then would wake up sometime in the middle of the night. You wouldn't be hungry, but you also wouldn't go back to sleep unless I lifted you out of your crib and placed you on my chest. There you'd sleep until the morning, and although I never slept all that great while you slept with me, those were easily some of the most beautiful moments of my life. You healed a lot of pain in those late-night moments. You wiped clean a lot of scars.

Aside from those late-night wake-ups, we tried very hard to put you down awake for most of your life, when we could tell you were tired. I have never enjoyed the hold-your-breath-transfer-the-sleeping-baby-to-his-crib maneuver, so even if it meant going in nine kajillion times to give you back your pacifier or rub your head or turn your music back on, this is how I preferred it. And, as you grew, the work we put into getting you to fall asleep on your own paid off, and (sadly, ironically) you can no longer sleep on top of me. You need your crib, your own space, your stuffed dog, your music. When I try to place you on my chest for a nap or to lull you into sleep, you jolt upright, look around, smile that goofy, lovely smile. Our late-night naps together are behind us. I try not to long for yesterday, but sometimes I can't help it.

This past month we took you on your first vacation! You did scream through a couple missed naps and you probably didn't sleep as well as you would have at home, but you stunned us and shocked us with how good you were for the majority of the trip. We planned the things we wanted to do, and nothing had to be scraped or changed or altered because of you. You just went along for the ride. We schlepped you for hours in the car and hours up a mountain and hours at the beach and hours all around the Portland vicinity, and you just smiled and jibber-jabbered and slept through it all. It was a really incredible time, full of memories we'll have forever. Including, THE FIRST TIME YOU ATE SAND:

Yes, we had enough time to take this picture before saving you, I KNOW THAT'S NOT COOL. Also not cool? How hard we laughed. But, hey! Those senses of humor your parents both have will come in handy one day, when you, say, wreck the car or drink too much trashcan punch at your first college party. We'll be able to joke and laugh the entire time we're taking away your cell phone and whatever crazy gadget they think up next.

On our vacation, I was really tired at one point. The time change didn't throw you off quite as much as I feared, but you were still waking up between 6-7 a.m., and, I'm sorry, but I'm old and overweight and that hour is still rather unappealing for me, so I was yawning and sleepy, and then I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the beautiful Oregon landscape, and I realized this would be the trip we'll talk about throughout your life. The first trip. The first family vacation. God, screw exhaustion, this is our life. We are going to live our lives and have adventures and travel and experience things and trek up a mountain to get a picture of you with the snow-capped peaks behind you and we're going to probably grumble at various points about the way the other is driving or how fussy you're being or how damn tired we are, but we're still going to do it all, and we're going to do it together.

 

I've only known you for six months. Oh, but I've loved you forever.

Happy half birthday, buds.

Love,

Your Mama

Five months

Dear Kyle,

Just yesterday, you figured out how to play your own version of peek-a-boo with me. You buried your face into my chest and then looked at me, and I laughed. Then you got a sneaky smile on your face and did it again and again and again, waiting for me to laugh each time. Basically, kid, YOU ARE BRILLIANT. Some may say I'm tainted with mom eyes, but to them I'd say TRYING TO MAKE ME LAUGH AT FIVE MONTHS OF AGE. That's hands-down proof right there. Can't convince me otherwise.

This month has been crazy, just as all the months since your birth have been, it seems -- drop a baby into anyone's lives, and I'm sure the adjective they'd use to describe things would be CAH-RAZY -- but this month we decided to buy our first house and move into it, and, boy, did that take the crazy up a notch. Your father and I have moved a lot in the course of our relationship, but moving with a baby is different in that it sucks about 85 times more. And a few weekends in a row disrupting your nap schedule rightly pissed you off. Our first official day in our new home was last Sunday, and you spent most of that day screaming. I couldn't even blame you. I wanted to do precisely the same thing. We had family in town, so we needed to go to dinner as there was nowhere to eat at our new place except the back porch, and on that particular day it was something like 178 degrees outside. I was internally FREAKING OUT because taking you out in public in your state was like poking the world's largest and grumpiest bear. WITH A BRANDING IRON. Who takes a tired, screaming baby out to a restaurant? Well. I do. But, get this, you didn't make a peep the entire time at dinner and THEN you slept through the night that night and basically have every night since then. I KNOW! We should have moved the first week you were born!

Sleeping through the night is the milestone I have been (im)patiently waiting for and dreaming about for, oh, FIVE MONTHS NOW. I think it's actually something you could have done awhile ago; you haven't been eating much in the middle of the night since around 10 weeks or so. Basically you were just getting up to party and check things out, and, hey, I'm not judging, I've enjoyed many a 2 a.m. party myself. I know we could have let you cry it out -- we probably would have had you sleeping through the night some time ago if we had -- and if I had reached the end of my exhausted, frayed rope, I probably would have resorted to that. I'm not some superior mom because I couldn't bring myself to let you cry in your crib. I simply knew my limits, and although you came MIGHTY close to breaking them, you never quite did. So I would get up and pop that pacifier back in your mouth or hold you a little to calm you back down or turn your music thingamajig back on when you would get fussy, and then I'd try to sleep for as long as you'd let me until you needed me to do one or all of those things again. And it suuuuuucked, there's no way around it. I have big plans to record your screams one day, so I can play them back for you when you're 17 and still in bed at 2 p.m., but it never sucked so badly that I couldn't handle it, even if I had to cry and mutter profanities whilst handling it. But, it seems you've pretty much rounded the turn. You sleep (give or take) from about 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. and my former self -- my high school or college self -- would cringe at those hours. SIX O'CLOCK? IN THE MORNING? But after seeing the hours of midnight and then 2 a.m. and then 4 a.m. and then 6 a.m. at various points in the last five months, those hours are golden. Those hours are magical. Those hours are fucking perfect.

In addition to sleeping through the night, you're also becoming sweeter and more enjoyable with every passing day. I sound like a broken record when I say that because in each letter I say something along those lines, but, my god, it's true. You smile at anyone who looks your way, you flirt with anyone in a skirt who looks your way, and you adore all the people you rightfully should (your grandparents, our close friends, your teachers, your dad and me). You just like people and you just like life, and I'm always a little stunned at this because I vividly remember how you liked absolutely nothing those first couple months of your life. Over the weekend we took you to a couple different places -- a BBQ, out to eat more than once -- and several people commented on how happy you are. "What a happy baby!" they'd squeal, as you smirked and laughed at them. And, man, those words were like a gift to me. Not because having a happy baby is easier than having a screaming baby -- although, of course, it is -- but because from the moment you were born, all I wanted was your happiness. Seeing it come alive right in front of me is bliss, sweet boy. Pure bliss.

Some other things you're doing this month: the pacifier staredown (thanks, Jen!), trying to hold your bottle yourself, testing out real food from a real spoon, grabbing everything you can, putting everything you grab right into your mouth including my phone and your dad's beer (parenting win!), losing your hair, chunking up and almost sitting up unassisted (we're just a few weeks away, I think).

So, this move of ours has taken me a little farther from work and has plopped us into a small town. We regularly see goats right across the street from our house, and we had to buy a RIDING MOWER to take care of our expansive yard. Also, a neighbor brought hand-grown tomatoes over last night and said, without sarcasm, "I've been watching you for a week now to see when a good time to come over would be." Um, cool. Also, CREEPY. But for a girl who grew up in San Francisco, this twist of fate shocks no one more than me. If you had told me, even six years ago, that I'd be married to the man I'm married to, raising the boy I'm raising in an old farmhouse on a half acre of land, miles and miles from the closest high rise, I'd have laughed at you and then cried into a pillow. It wouldn't have sounded much fun to me. What about all the adventures I planned to have? What about the city life I assumed I was one day destined for? What about the bugs? I know we serve as a cautionary tale for some -- the college-educated professionals who skipped out on living close to work and close to downtown life in order to give our kid a yard and a rocks-and-dirt, hunting-for-worms childhood. I know it seems like we've sacrificed more than we're getting in return. My 21-year-old self would think the same things. She'd turn her nose up so quickly at this little life of mine, she'd hurt herself. And you may hear your dad and I complain from time to time about the driving and the yard work and, yes, the bugs. KYLE, YOU WILL HEAR MUCH COMPLAINING ABOUT THE BUGS. But know this, now and always: I have never, ever had more fun in my life or had such wild adventures as I'm having now. They don't look anything like I planned, no, but they knock any of my before-you dreams right on their ass. This isn't just the life I want, kiddo, this is the life I need.

The night we moved into our house, you were snoozing in your crib, and your dad and I popped open a bottle of champagne and toasted to our new beginning, our new life in our new home. We stood in the kitchen, boxes all askew, and smiled big and bright at one another. It's been a helluva year so far, and 2009 will easily go down as the craziest, most insane, hardest, most glorious year of our lives. The year we hoped maybe, possibly for a healthy baby and instead were handed the world.

I love you so much, buddy,

Your Mama

Four months

Dear Kyle,

Well, we celebrated you turning four months old the typical way you celebrate things. We bought a house. I know, your parents are crazy! Embarking on one of the most stressful things you can do in life right after wrapping up another of the most stressful things you can do in life (that would be having you, my beautiful boy). That's just how we roll, though. Your father and I choose to fill our plates to overflowing and then bitch about how stressed we are. We're not going to drive you crazy at all when you're an angsty teenager!

Four months, though. My god. Your dad and I look at one another often and wonder aloud how it's possible. How have four months gone by since the day they handed you to me in the delivery room. How have we also not permanently damaged you in these four months? You seem just fine and, well, I think that's because of your parents' dumb luck and nothing else. Someone asked me the other day what a particular cry of yours meant, and I looked them dead in the eye and said, "I have absolutely no idea." And that was the truth. We're still trying to figure you out, we still don't know what the hell we're doing most days. We try to roll with the punches and remain flexible, but most days we just try to get through with minimal tears and some laughs.

This month was also the month of your first road trip, and I didn't talk about it much on this site because who likes a bragger but, OH MY LORD, you were amazing. I think your father and I are starting to realize how lucky we are to have you. You are just so much easier than I stupidly believed you were going to be when you were screaming your head off at four weeks of age. You get cooler every day, and although, sure, we've had to hurry out of restaurants because you were totally over watching us enjoy a meal, and you're still not sleeping through the night (um, when are you going to start, just curious?), there aren't many days I don't enjoy being with you. Most days are good. Most days are fun. Most days I pinch myself, and even though I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to say this back when you were a little squishy newborn, I really, really, really enjoy motherhood.

This month you've begun to really notice things, reach for them, pull them slowly to you. You have had a little toy hanging off your car seat handle since the day you were born -- since before then, even -- but this month you saw Stanley for the first time. Now when I put you in the car seat, you search for him and get giddy with excitement each time your eyes rest on him. Your eyes light up and you look as if you're thinking, "You again! How the heck are you!?" 

You have begun to talk, and more often than not, you wake us up each morning not by howling like you used to but by jabbering to your mobile, to the elephants on your bumper, to Mr. Pup who lives in your crib with you. You talk and talk and talk and then you make yourself laugh and then you talk some more, and it would be impossible to convince me those aren't the most beautiful sounds on earth.

We also left you over night twice this past month, once to celebrate our two-year anniversary and another time just last night, to celebrate having family willing to watch you. A lot of people look at me strangely when I say I don't mind leaving you, but it's true. I miss you like crazy, you should know, and I think of you every 15 seconds or so, but I want you to know that there is no relationship more important to me in life than the one I have with your father. And not only because he's funny -- although he is -- or because I've now purchased property with him and we really owe it to Wells Fargo to make this marriage work but because more than the home we just bought you or the college education we'll do our best to cover the cost of for you, the gift of a happy home and happy, in-love parents is the very best gift I can think to give you. Sometimes, to keep our home happy, we have to leave it and that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with room service and a full night's sleep.

We also think it's important that you have a relationship with your grandparents, apart from just a night of babysitting every now and then. These are the people you'll turn to when your father and I say you can't pierce your ears or your lip or other body parts I WILL NOT LET YOU POKE HOLES IN WHILE YOU ARE YOUNG AND STUPID, SO HELP ME. These are the people who will support you and encourage you and will never get worn down or frustrated or snappy with you like we inevitably will. They will love you in simpler ways than we can -- that's just the joy of grandparents -- and we think it's ever-so-important that you bond with them.

In many ways, I am not the kind of mother I thought I'd be, and being OK leaving you in the capable hands of others is one way. I also don't worry about you getting hurt or getting sick as much as I thought. Your nose is perpetually running (thanks mega-expensive day care!) and this past month we realized your neck was developing a little funny, a slight condition with a very long, hard-to-spell name I'm too lazy to Google, and I didn't really worry much about it at all -- we were already doing the doctor-sanctioned stretches and exercises with you -- but someone looked at me with worry and fear in their eyes one day and said, "You know, he's going to need physical therapy." And, yeah, maybe. I've accepted the possibility of you needing therapy in many forms, but even if you HAD needed physical therapy or WILL need physical therapy, isn't that OK? It seems better to me than, say, you becoming a Republican one day. (Now THAT I fear. Kidding! Although, no, not really at all.) Oh, Ky. If I had a nickel for every time someone looked at me with fear in their eyes because of the decisions I make for you, I wouldn't be so damn eager for that first-time home buyer's tax credit to reach my broke little hands. And it doesn't really bother me as much as I thought. Everyone else's opinions don't affect a single thing I decide for you. I trust my choices for you, and that's a shock, too, that I am confident in my ability to be your mother in a way no one else is able. Your neck is great now, as I knew it would be, and it's so damn fun watching you look around the world with big eyes and curiosity. Everything is a discovery for you, and I just never thought I would enjoy watching a little human discover the coolness of his own hand. And it's not just that I enjoy watching you swivel your head to take in everything you can; it's that I feel honored to bear witness to you. I am stunned that I get to watch you grow and that one day I'll be the person you try to bargain with for the car keys. 

The other day as I dropped you off at school -- what we call day care because we pay enough to call it whatever the hell we want to -- you lit up with joy when you saw your favorite teacher. You lit up in a way you haven't upon seeing me yet. I thought I'd be jealous or sad or torn up a little that you could be so happy to see someone other than the woman who gave up champagne for a solid year to ensure you were born with just the right number of fingers and toes, but I wasn't. After I handed you to her, I walked to my car happy and at peace. There is nothing so wonderful, so beautiful, so amazing in this world than seeing your child happy, and I don't really care what on earth causes that happiness. If it's me, fantastic. If it's motorcycle riding, I won't stand in your way. If it's diving off cliffs with a parachute attached to you, pass me the vodka, but go for it. If it's someone other than me, great. Your happiness is more important to me than anything else in life, and there is nothing I do without it in mind.

I thought I loved unconditionally before, I thought I had it down. I mean, I love your father despite what he fills our DVR up with, but having you has left all that love in the dust, so to speak. Loving you, Kyle, is simply the thing I am best at. You can add this to the list of parenting cliches that have proven to be true: I don't just love you, but I love who you have made me to be.

Happy four months, buddy!

Love,

Your Mama

Three months

Dear Kyle,

I can't honestly think of a better way to celebrate your three-month birthday than by screaming your adorable little head off for a couple hours before bed last night. OH WAIT. YES I CAN. I can think of many, many better ways to celebrate and all of them include something a little stronger in my bottle than formula.

You tend to do this, Kyle. You are near perfect for days leading up to the day I write these letters to you and then you RELEASE THE HELL BEAST WITHIN and I'm all whoa, child, where the hell did that come from?

Just this morning -- and you're going to think I made this story up, just created it out of thin air, but, HA HA, your father was my witness -- you were cooing and laughing in your crib while I got ready for work, and when I went in to get you dressed, I leaned over your crib bars, began to lift you up and your face instantly contorted into an expression that can only be described as something only Rosemary's baby could identify with. You SCREAMED while I changed your diaper. You SCREAMED while I changed you into a very cute outfit. You SCREAMED while I held you to me and kissed your cheeks. You SCREAMED while I strapped you into your car seat. You SCREAMED while we said good-bye to your dad and you SCREAMED while I noted the look of sheer terror on his face (mixed with a bit of relief that we would soon be gone). You SCREAMED all the way to school. And then you stopped screaming. I opened the back door and there you were, just smiling at me like you had not just made my ears bleed on a Monday morning. MONDAY, KYLE. Those kind of suck without the screaming. 

But, you know, we've learned this is just who you are. You keep us on our toes with your slight dramatic streak. And, son, by slight I mean: Could you be ANY more like your father? Is it possible for any child to be more dramatic than you? I'm willing to wager, um, no. NOT EVEN A LITTLE POSSIBLE.

(Kyle, you make your mother type in ALL CAPS quite a lot, you should know.)

All that aside, this has been the best month we've spent with you so far. We were told that each month would be better than the last, and I guess that made sense but, see, no one mentioned how MUCH better. No one bothered to define better. No one specified that just when I thought I had adjusted and settled into this new life, this beautiful new life, something so small like a laugh or a funny face or a real, honest-to-goodness cuddle would crack this life down the middle and things would explode with perfection, with the richest, most vibrant colors imaginable. No one ever went on after "better" to say "so much better you'll be able to wrap your head around the thought of a second baby IN HIS THIRD MONTH OF LIFE." (Perhaps they didn't say that because they were certain I'd kick them in the shins with disbelief.) (But if they had said that, love, it would have been true.)

I thought you would change me in some Big, Meaningful, Deep way when you were born and although I have spoken often and at length about those hard first few weeks, I was still me, deep down. I still got excited over the prospect of pepperoni pizza. I still threw the remote at the TV when Lucas would declare his love for Peyton. I still shopped online more than I probably should have. And I still left my shoes just all over the house (or: I still drove your father totally, completely bonkers by simply being myself). I didn't go through some crazy transformation when you came out of me. I was simply me with quite a bit more on the line than before. The only real change I've been able to see -- other than all that money we now drop on diapers and wipes and formula and OH MY GOD there is no industry I'd like to get in on like the baby formula industry. That stuff is so insanely, mind-blowingly expensive I don't think you should aim to be a doctor or lawyer, son, but the CEO of Enfamil. AND YOU WILL PAD YOUR MOTHER'S BANK ACCOUNT WITH THAT FORMULA PAYCHECK, OK? -- is that my first thought is always of you. When I was driving to work the other day and a tornado warning interrupted the song on the radio, I didn't worry if I was in the path of the tornado like I would have before. I didn't call your father franticly certain the tornado would kill me and I'd never again be able to drink champagne. I calmly thought of you and assessed where you were in relation to the tornado. When swine flu broke out last week (oh how I wish that were a typo), I didn't worry about ME getting sick; I worried about my poor, adorable three-month old getting sick. You're my first thought and that's just how it is. It happened immediately and without trying. I still love "The Hills," but I now think things like: MY SON IS NOT ALLOWED TO BE SPENCER PRATT. EVER. 

The other morning, I was giving you your bottle and I realized that I had put the wrong nipple on it. You have advanced to Level 2 now, you big boy, and I had accidentally put on a Level 1 nipple (perhaps because it was SIX O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING). Regardless, it was frustrating you because the milk wasn't coming out quickly enough, and you were squawking in between gulps. I set the bottle down after I realized my mistake and put you in your bouncer so I could fix the problem, and OH MY GOD you began FREAKING OUT like I just told you you couldn't borrow the car on Friday night. You seriously lost it. How dare I take away your breakfast without so much as a consultation, without so much as a WARNING. Kyle, you actually started to throw a tantrum, I swear it. I stopped on my way to the kitchen, turned toward you and could not stop laughing. This was the worst your life had ever been up to this point. This moment when your mother had the AUDACITY to take away your bottle when you were not done with it. I think you may have even screeched something about telling your father on me. Your problems are going to get worse, I absolutely guarantee that. And I also guarantee it won't be the first time I laugh at you when you are losing your shit. But I guarantee that no matter what, I won't leave you, buddy. I may have to put you down to fix things. I may have to piss you off in order to do what's right and best for you. I may have to laugh at your expense, even, but you can bet your ass I'm always going to be there for you. It's my favorite place in the whole wide, stupid, swine-flu crazed world to be.

You've lit everything up this month, Kyle. With your screams, your laughs, your love. You've given me the three best months of my life. And I hear it only gets better from here. 

 

You're wearing your monkey slippers in this picture. The slippers I bought you when you didn't even exist. The slippers I bought you the first month your dad and I started trying for you. I bought them for $1 at Target, and when I showed them to your dad I squealed, "CAN YOU JUST IMAGINE HOW CUTE OUR BABY WILL BE IN THESE?" You know what, love? We couldn't. We could never have imagined.

Love,

Your Mama

Two months

Dear Kyle,

First, can I ask when you plan to get a job? You've been living under our roof for two months now and that's quite a long time to freeload. Baby modeling. Think about it. 

So, this has been one of those beautiful months I'll remember for the rest of my life; the month when I finally emerged from the exhaustive and overwhelming fog that settled on me for the first six weeks of your life. The month I began to cherish being your mother. 

You've come alive this month. You're no longer our cross-eyed, suspicious newborn; you're our alert, responsive, focused, suspicious baby. You suck on your hands when your pacifier can't do and you're able to entertain yourself for up to an hour before you screech for someone to DO! SOMETHING! MAKE ME LAUGH, DAMMIT!

I went back to work this month because our government has some priorities majorly out of whack and also because your father and I made some very bad choices in college and those choices included: 1) tequila shots and 2) high-interest credit cards. Thankfully your father and I also chose each other in college and we hope that makes up for all those ridiculous charges we made despite our bank account balance being two digits. Going back to work was the most bittersweet experience of my life. In so many ways I was glad to be back, and I hope you find a job you're equally as passionate about one day. But I had to leave you in the care of strangers. Competent, trained, credentialed strangers but strangers nonetheless. The first two days, your father had to drop you off and then, under strict orders, call me the moment he was in the car to tell me the exact expression on your face when he left you. "Did my boy look upset? DID HE LOOK ABANDONED?" Your father humored me -- he always, always does -- but he also suggested I drop you off myself to see it wasn't "all that bad." So, I did. AND YOUR FATHER IS A GIANT, FAT LIAR. I cried the moment I walked in the door, before I had even put your car seat on the floor. I cried for many, many moments after that, as well. I believe I was at the vending machine at 4 p.m. still weepy over the thought of you being across town WITH SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME. I don't regret going back to work and, yes, I even enjoyed being back. I like adult conversation and, again, I like what I do. I feel I'm good at, and I think that's important, both for me and for the example I'm setting for you. I also think that gut-wrenching, heart-stopping feeling is something I better get used to when it comes to parenthood, but you should know that leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done. You should also know you looked just fine when I left, perfectly content in the bouncer and, seriously, would it have killed you to perhaps acknowledge my existence while I was sobbing uncontrollably?

I also stopped breastfeeding this month, and I expect that simple sentence will finally bring out the trolls on this site. Breastfeeding is the single most controversial topic IN THE WORLD. It brings out opinions in people who don't have a thing to say about nuclear weapons or drug trafficking or even MTV's "The Hills." Perfect strangers care about my boobs, and I've come to expect that right after the cashier at Tom Thumb asks me your name and age, she'll ask, "Are you nursing?" Stopping was the right decision for us, made somewhat by default by a supply that could never keep up with your appetite but also made so that your mother could regain her sanity, something that was slowly slipping from my grasp. I know, in my heart, that the best gift I can ever give you is my own peace of mind, and I know that every day I choose to be a strong and grounded person, I'm choosing right for you. I will miss those moments we had together in the dead of night, with you physically connected to me, but I am also happy that now someone else (YOUR FATHER) can wake up in the middle of the night to feed you if you become hungry even though you just ate OH MY GOD WHERE ARE YOU PUTTING ALL THAT FOOD? I'm telling you this because it's not the first time people are going to doubt my decisions for you, and, sure, it stings a little when people think they know what's best for you, think they know better than me when I'm fairly sure they weren't the ones retaining water for nine months. THEY WEREN'T THE ONES WITH VAGINAL TEARING, NOW WERE THEY? No one knows what's best for you except your father and I, but many, many people haven't and won't seem to get that memo. Many people are just going to disagree and I'm telling you all of this because I want you to know it's OK. In life, you do your best. You make choices rooted in love, and you ignore anyone who doesn't think those choices are good enough. Because, my boy, those people are wrong.

You also began showing us glimpses of your personality this month. I think you're going to be a very stubborn, very dramatic, VERY MUCH LIKE YOUR FATHER little boy. But you also have the most beautiful smile in all the world and although you don't flash it all the time, you're also very much like your father in that when you do smile, everyone around you can feel it in their bones. Your dad doesn't blow smoke or do anything insincerely so when he smiles or laughs or looks deep into my eyes to tell me he loves me, I know he's being completely honest. I foresee you being the same way. I got my hair cut yesterday and you hung out with your dad all afternoon. When I walked in the door, you and he were hanging out, talking, watching some boring show on the Discovery channel, and I scooped you up and out of his arms. You looked right at me and smiled the widest grin I'd seen from you so far. Just like the only other boy I'm deeply in love with, I knew you were happy to see me. I could feel it in my bones.

There is this moment after I put you to bed at night, after you've settled into that thick sleep and your breathing deepens and your little tiny limbs turn to noodles. I'm glad you're finally down, and I can focus on the chores, the bills, the preparations for the next day and, fine, Oprah on the DVR. But as I'm shuffling around the house that moment slams into me. I'm just feet away from you, you're just across the house, but I begin to ache. I miss you. Moments after you leave my arms, I want you back in them. As soon as you've drifted off, I want to wake you to see if I can get you to smile or to make those cooing noises that fill me with joy. I know we're both better, stronger individuals for the time we're apart, and I also know it's beautiful to have something in your life you miss so physically and so wholly. I also know it won't get any easier, and I'll spend the rest of my life aching for you, all the while doing all I can to ensure you're fine without me. That's the gloriously heartbreaking truth of parenthood: we raise our kids to walk away while we long for you to stay. We smile and urge you to go while keeping our arms free for you to return if ever you need to. 

I can hardly believe how far you've come this month and, yet, I can hardly believe there are a billion more changes up ahead. I look at you and see you for who you are in this moment, but I also see all the versions of you you've slipped in and out of over the last two months. I see a dozen different Kyles when I look at you, and the thought of looking into your eyes when you're 18 or 25 or 40 to see a million different people makes me gasp for breath. It's all the proof I need to believe in God. You are all the proof I need to believe in anything at all. 

(Including the belief in having a beer every now and then, which is exactly what I'm off to have right now.)

Love,

Your Mama

One month

Kyle, 

Last night was rough. You were fussy and thrashing about and just as soon as I would doze off, you'd screech about the injustices of being warm and dry and fed. HOW COULD I TAKE SUCH GOOD CARE OF YOU? THE NERVE OF ME! As my clock ticked over to 6 a.m., I realized I had yet to actually fall asleep. And look at your mom, stringing words together after clocking roughly three total hours of sleep in the last almost 24. I've become kind of a badass, Kyle, all thanks to you.

We brought you home just under a month ago, and that first night will haunt me forever. It was the hardest night of my life, and I regret that you spent your first night at home watching your mother break down. I know you have no recollection of it or of the many other ways I fell short this past month -- forgetting to change you out of your pee-stained onesie, leaving crusted milk on your face because the wipes were clear across the room, giving you a bottle AND a pacifier before all those lactation consultants told me I should -- but all those shortcomings are etched in my memory. I'm now convinced that God actually created alcohol to help mothers cope with The Guilt. Thankfully, though, with each day I put behind us, I become more and more convinced I can do this, I can totally be your mom and, you know, I can kind of rock it, too. I hope you feel that we're becoming a stronger team with each passing nap, each flash of your grin, each time we head out into the world and I remember to pack extra diapers in the diaper bag. I hope you feel as I feel, that WHOA it was kind of bumpy at first, but it's now becoming pretty damn awesome. 

People say you look a lot like me, and I'm starting to see that, especially when I look at my own baby pictures, but, OH MY, you are your father's son. You are already stubborn and particular and you make 9,000 different expressions, each one a variation of the faces your dad makes. When you are hungry and ready to eat, you do this dramatic head shake as if you can't possibly wait one moment longer for food. WHERE IS MY MILK, GIMME NOW NOW NOW, your face screams, and every time you do this funny little thing, I think of all the many times your dad has stomped his feet and pouted and whined when his food wasn't brought to him just as soon as he wanted it. No matter how many times I sigh and shake my head at him, though, I adore your father, and it's really only fitting that he would give me you, an adorably suspicious mini-version of himself. 

I kiss you a lot, and it's one silly little parenting cliche that is insanely spot-on, the one that says you will not be able to resist sticking half your baby in your mouth. I kiss your feet and hands and stomach and ears and nose and, yes, I kiss you right on the mouth at least 65 times a day. I assume you'll eventually ask me to stop doing this -- one day far too soon, I know -- so I want to be able to look back on these early days and remember a time when I could kiss you as often as I wanted. When you're screaming on the changing table or quietly asleep, I munch on your fingers and toes and chin. I'll avoid doing this when your prom date comes over, but you should know that if you really want something from me -- an extra $20, a curfew extension -- all you have to do is let me kiss you like I was able to do every moment of every day of this month. 

So, yes, last night was rough. There was one point I had you in my arms, your big steel gray eyes looking up at me, with an actual tear in the corner of one. Your little arms were crossed and your mouth was pursed, and you just looked worn out. It's tough being born, I totally get that (it's not a piece of cake birthing someone either, you should know). As you looked up at me, I said to you, "Oh, baby, it's OK." Because, Kyle, it absolutely is. If you need to be up all night, thrashing and screeching, it's OK. If you need to cry, that's OK too. If you want to nap at the same time for five days in a row and then go two days without a single nap, that's fine. If you don't like being changed, totally understandable. If you need to be suspicious of this world we brought you into for a while, we get it. We don't want or need anything of you other than for you to be exactly as you are. It's all OK with us. We love you just this way. And even under a thick fog of exhaustion I know that those 6 a.m. moments are going to be the exact moments I long for one day. I know that even though it doesn't always feel like it, these are going to be my favorite days. So I hold you at 6 a.m. and I look back at you and I wipe your tear away and I smile. And I pray you know -- today, tomorrow, always -- that you are my dream come true, my miracle, my perfect, beautiful light of a boy. You are finally here with us, and that will always be enough for me. 

Now, could you please take a nap?

Love,

Your Mama

First letter

Son,

I'm days away from seeing your face, and soon enough I won't remember life without that face in it, so I'm writing this for the both of us -- so you will know what your mother was thinking the days leading up to your arrival and so I will never forget.

I used to talk to you, before you ever existed, when you were just a hope. I used to tell you how much I wanted you, how I would try forever to get you, and how I would love you even if you wanted to vote Republican one day. Then, when we got the news you were growing inside me, I held my breath, desperately hopeful nothing would take you away from us. I'm sorry if I wished away those first few weeks of pregnancy, always wanting to get a few more days under my belt, convinced you'd be safer tomorrow. Your mama is working really hard to stop wishing the days away, to stop holding her breath so much, certain the good is reserved for tomorrow. I know the good is right now, and I'm going to do my damnedest to stay in each moment with you.

I didn't love being pregnant every moment of every day, and I'm not going to lie to you and say I did. In fact, there will be days when you're a crabby and moody teenager when I will remind you -- in great detail -- just how sick you made me. I love you, baby boy, but using that against you one day is what we call a perk of this job. But, I must say, life doesn't get more beautiful than feeling your child move within you. People said it would make all the other symptoms bearable and they were unequivocally right. Even though I still have two precious days to feel those movements, I guarantee I have missed them every day since.

I like to think that because of these last nine months, you and I will always have a secret between us. Although I don't know what the future holds or if you'll ever have a little sister or brother, this inside secret is one of the main reasons I hesitate to ever do this again -- not because pregnancy royally kicked my ass but because I like that it's just us in this club, that, for now, no one else is a member. I would put my hand on my stomach during my pregnancy and you'd never stop moving, sometimes you'd even kick a little harder. But when anyone else would come near me, you'd freeze, as if you knew it was a different hand. I could be making that up, but I like to believe you already know me and that you'll recognize me for the rest of your life. Even if you don't tell me about the girl (or boy!) you have a crush on or the parties you're sneaking out of the house to go to or the light pole you ran your dad's Mustang into, I hope you'll always recognize me, that you'll always know my hand from another's. (But you can tell me about the light pole. We'll figure it out together.)

Speaking of your dad, I did good, didn't I? You can thank me by not rolling your eyes at me 9 million times a day in about 13 years. Although I am a lot of really cool things your dad is infinitely cooler. I think you're really going to enjoy life with him on your team. It softens all the falls, multiplies all the joys and makes everything that much sweeter. I am sorry about what he fills our DVR with, though. Unless you enjoy those same shows, and if you do, I have failed as a mother. It's official.

I want a lot for you, as I think all moms do. I want you to have more than I have, I want you to be smarter and kinder and funnier. I want you to find something you're passionate about and go after it. I want you to feel great love and great hope. I want you to be grounded and self-assured. I want you to read more than I have made the time to. But, mostly, I want you to follow your heart and be true to yourself above all other things. I want you to know that I will never waver in my support of you, and I will stand up beside you endlessly, but, baby, if you want to try out for American Idol and you cannot sing, I am going to try and prepare you for what may happen. Nothing breaks my heart more than those poor, awful singers standing in front of the judges, CRYING ON NATIONAL TELEVISION and managing to say, "But my mom says I'm a great singer." I will go with you to the auditions. I will bedazzle signs. I will also pull you aside and talk about a little thing we call a back-up plan. I love you enough to be honest with you, and I hope that in being honest with you, you'll be honest with me right back and let me know when I'm wearing mom jeans.

I'm not sure what our life is like in the future. I don't know if I get my act together to cook us all dinner more regularly or if I tackle the laundry before the laundry, literally, tackles me. I do know that our life before you was sweet and simple and beautiful in all the most important ways, and it's because of how happy we were before you that we wanted you so badly. You weren't a solution or a Band-aid or a quick fix. You were something we prayed for and tried for and even though I am just terrified about Thursday and how exactly getting you out is going to go down, there has never been a day that I haven't thought adding you to our family was one of the best ideas your dad and I ever came up with together.

We had this slight little scare halfway through my pregnancy, and because your mother is CRAZY, I spent a good few days unsure of what was really going on with you and instead of just relaxing and breathing and watching reality television, I Googled every possible outcome. I had myself so scared and worked up, I was positive we'd never see your birthday, and I began doing what I imagine all mothers do at some point: bargaining. I don't really care how religious you are or aren't, I think there comes a time in everyone's life when they say, "Screw it, I'll give praying a try," because they are so desperate to avoid a certain outcome. You can't really appreciate that yet, I know, and it'll be years before you do, but halfway through my pregnancy, when I thought you weren't entirely safe inside me, I began offering myself up in order to assure you'd be just fine. I haven't held you yet, seen your eyes, heard your cry, but, baby, my life already seems like a small price to pay for yours. Yes, yes, your mother is so dramatic, but, love, it's true. I'd do it all for you and then some. And, really, I think all that alcohol I avoided over the last almost year does more than prove that.

I can't wait to meet you.

Love,

Your Mama