Someday you will read this, maybe when you are ten...or sixteen...or forty. My hope is that every year, I can capture the essence of you in a letter. Tonight is the eve of your very first birthday, and the gravity of your first year (gone!) is more than I can handle. It should be a celebration, indeed, but it seems that your infancy passed before me like a spear in the wind.
This was the year that you went from a heartbeat on a monitor to a thriving, healthy child. You have forever changed the dynamic of our family, as the final cornerstone of this sacred structure. Sure, we worked well as a family of three, and yes...things were simpler then, but I was left with a gaze that fell beyond Ella's shoulder, searching for that last soul who belonged to us, the same way she had. Thank you—and thank God!—for bringing that soft, sweet face into view and turning our "three" into "we."
This was the year that you learned it all: how to nurse, how to smile, how to eat solids, how to crawl, how to walk. Your body finally caught up with your long toes—such big feet, in fact, that they warranted gasp and a laugh from my OB as he delivered you. In one short year you tripled in weight, and grew inches in spurts that left us wondering if a baby-burglar broke in during the night and replaced our tiny infant with someone bigger.
This was the year that you spent at home with your Daddy. The timing of his layoff meant you never went to daycare; you stayed snuggled up at home with him while I worked. I'll hit the highlights first: you played giggling rounds of peek-a-boo and spent time in your exersaucer (aka neglect-o-matic) while Daddy frantically put together the semblance of a balanced meal. You adored Ella and watched her every move. Because of Nellie, your first word was "woof." Any music, whether a jingle on TV or your Dad's whistling, sent you into rythmic bounces and head-nods. You have a hilarious sense of humor, and you carry the same coy smile as the blue-eyed man I fell in love with ten years ago.
However: this was the year that we almost went deaf. Your shrieking went on day and night, and it was enough to make your Daddy feel like a complete basketcase. (I'm sure there are times where the notion of being dragged off to a nice quiet insane asylum in a baby-free basket sounded quite appealing to him.) A hot meal became a delusion for the family, as we passed your long, lean body across the table, inadvertently dragging your toes through our pasta sauce. I would call Daddy from my office and before he could even say hello, I could hear you screaming. "Should we take him to the doctor?" I would ask. Your temperature was fine. You ate like a little piglet. You slept 11 hours at night. Your trick, we learned, was to scream like you were on fire, then when one of us would drop everything to put you in our lap, you'd grin and look at us like we were fools. Smart kid, you.
This was the year that we lost our two most expensive pieces of furniture. Our hinged-lid coffee table and your beautiful blonde-maple crib are now covered in teeth marks and tiny scratches, from where you decided one day that you were part Sands, part beaver. People don't believe us until they come over and see for themselves. I'm talking about 5 feet of teeth-tracks, all across both pieces. And no one ever catches you in the act.
This was the year that you and I bonded every few hours in a dreamy, nuzzling state together. You were a breastfed baby through and through, and I loved every minute of it. You would latch onto me and hum, eyes rolling backward in delight as I rubbed the top of your tiny fuzzy head. I avoided perfume so you could mark my scent. By the time you were three months old, you knew when I was in the room without me speaking or entering your field of vision. We were connected at the core—a benefit of the time I invested in that rocker with you, sending you love and light, peace and growth. I have never hoped for you to reach a destiny determined by me. My prayer is that you discover the most happy, fulfilled version of beautiful You, as you were made to be.
This was the year that, like the Grinch, my heart burst out of the little wrought-iron frame and grew three times bigger. I can't watch the news, because the thought of a child in danger rips through me to the core and makes me think of losing you. I lay in bed on Saturday mornings, unable to sleep because I am waiting to hear your first noises. It always happens like this: I creep into your room and whisper "good morning, little mister." A tiny, fuzzy head pops up over the crib rails. The faint morning light curls in around your window shade...just enough to illuminate your ear-to-ear grin. Your tiny hands shoot up and toward me, your fingers splayed like the beaks of baby birds waiting for contact. Your arms wrap around my neck, and I lift you to an embrace.
I am your world, and in that moment, you are mine. I take in the scent of your sweet, sparse, baby hair and I am yours, Carson. And I am forever changed.
Happy birthday, my sweet son. I love you!
