A Birthday Love Letter to a Wild Sweetheart

My Darling Sal,

On the night of your second birthday--after a busy day of ginormous balloons, princess tiaras, and buttercream frosted cakes--I sat down to write a love letter to you.  This is my tradition, I do it every year, so I opened my computer and fully expected the swell of adoration to come washing over me so I could write.

But I waited and waited, and the feeling didn't come.  All I felt was exhaustion.

Perhaps this is something that I shouldn't admit in a birthday love letter.  Perhaps I should skip over the weariness of motherhood and get right to the sweet scene of you blowing out your birthday candles.  But I tell you the truth because one day you will be a mother.  And you will know what I mean when I describe this exhaustion.  Sometimes, you will simply feel overwhelmed and tired, and you might feel guilty that you don't feel all-consuming, gleeful, giddy love for your children all the time.

I want to tell you that it's normal.  It's normal to be exhausted when you have little ones.  It's normal to feel so utterly depleted at the end of the day that the thought of writing a sentimental love letter is just too much.

And so, on the night of your birthday, I shut my laptop and went to sleep.  And in my bedtime prayer, the feeling came.  The awestruck swelling in my soul--the awe that I get to be your mother.  I get to see you grow and learn and become every day.  On my knees by the side of the bed, I smiled into the mattress as I thanked God for the beautiful little birthday girl in the sparkly crown and red-checkered dress.  I thanked God that you are mine.

Today is a new day, and I have a few moments of quiet to come back to this birthday love letter for you.  I want to tell you all about the things that I love about you as a two-year-old.

I love your little voice.  You have started talking so much in the past few weeks.  People comment on your little voice all the time because it is low and raspy--so unusual for a girl your age.  Maybe you'll be a growly alto like your mom and her sisters.  Ha!

You actually do love to sing, and as you walk around the house, you sing the ABCs, Popcorn Popping, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.  You also sing along to the music in the car, and your favorite song is "Doh Doh" as you call it (Uptown Funk by Bruno Mars--it starts with a guy singing, "Doh, doh, doh" hence the nickname).  You screech, "Doh doh!" every time we get into the van until I turn it on. (Oh the screeching!  You are definitely a determined little lady!)

Your vocabulary is exploding lately, and it's so fun.  When you sneeze, you say, "Bless you, Mom!" even though you are the one who sneezed.  You pretend to talk on the phone and have entire conversations with your favorite babysitter, Ashlyn, using that plastic purple phone.   One of your favorite things to say is "Oopsie daisie!" when you make a mistake. And just this week, you started counting to ten.  I love hearing all the new things you have to say every day. 

When you see babies, you shout excitedly, "Hold eeeeet!  Hold eeeet!"   Like your mama, you love a snuggly baby and grin from ear-to-ear when you are holding "it." Ha!

You love to pray and always ask to be the one to say it when I put you in your crib at night.  I lay you on your pillow, and then I kneel beside the crib and say each line slowly.  You fold your arms but keep your eyes wide open and smile with self-satisfaction as you quietly whisper the last word of each sentence that I say.  Then at the end you shout, "A-men!!"  It is the sweetest.  And the highlight of my night is when you stick your nose between the crib bars and ask for a nuzzle before I leave the room.  Rubbing noses with you and giving you a little kiss is a perfect way to end the day.

I love your bedhead and your sloppy pigtails when you wake up from a nap.  I love how much you adored this birthday card from your Bapa and carried it around the house with you saying "Bapa!  Bapa!"over and over and pointing out the animals:

You are a diva and a girly girl.  You are obsessed with princess dresses and shoes, and you love getting into my makeup.  You came out of my bathroom the other day looking like this, and you thought you looked very lovely:

You are a fashionista with your leopard print swimsuit and signature straw hats that you insist on wearing everywhere!

You also love diva sunglasses, and you yell, "Bright! Bright!" and ask for them every time we go outside.  Ha!

You love being the center of attention.  On your birthday, you insisted that we sing "Happy Birthday" to you about five times, and you sang along, loud and proud, and blew out the candles with gusto each time.  That will probably be one of my all-time favorite birthday memories of my children. 

You are a handful.  You have so much energy and spunk--you are much crazier than your brother Noah was at this age.  You want to try everything and you are super independent.  If I try to help you take your clothes off before a bath, you yell, "No, Mom!"  You want to do things yourself.

You are joyful and mischievous--and not obedient at all.  You almost always have a naughty little twinkle in your eye.  

You climb on everything.  You love to find ledges and walk on them--like the edges of sidewalks or  planters.  You have really good balance and can also climb the tall ladders at the playground.  Future gymnast?  You've started hanging upside down from the handles on the roof of the van and shouting, "Monkey bars!" Ha!  I am always amazed by your strength.  Maybe because you only weigh 23 pounds, it's easy for you to do these acrobatic moves. ;)

I mean, is this normal??

Yes, you only weigh 23 pounds. Noah weighed more than that when he turned one!  You are 10th percentile for height and weight--tiny but feisty, strong, and loud.  You know what you want in life, and you holler until it happens.  We usually let you get away with it because we are suckers and we are tired and you are too cute for your own good.

You adore your brother, even though he teases you constantly and you two fight like cats and dogs.  Aren't you too young to be fighting already??  I must say, sometimes when it's only 8:30 a.m. and you two are already shrieking at each other, I feel like I'm gonna lose my mind.  But then the other day I was giving you a bath, and I had to go grab a towel so I asked Noah to watch you for a minute, and as I was leaving the bathroom, I heard you spontaneously say to him, "Hi, Noah!  I wuv oo, Noah."   My heart melted.  Especially since I've never heard you spontaneously say "I love you" to anyone, not even Mom and Dad.  I hope you and Noah always look out for each other throughout life!

You are super dramatic in your facial expressions.  It is hilarious.  When you see a mashed up banana or something, you will screw up your face into the cutest grimace and say, "Ewww, gross!"  I can always tell by the look on your face exactly what you are thinking, whether it is disgust, joy, love, anger, or sadness.  I love how expressive you are.

You started riding your tricycle this month, and you love it.  You have to wear a backpack so you can reach the peddles because you're so short.  I can't get enough of my little urchin on her bike:

You fill my life and my heart with joy, Sally. Yes, you are a menace (as we still lovingly call you), but overall, I think I am a much more relaxed mom than I was when Noah was little.  It feels great to see that I am maturing and becoming more patient as a mother, more able to enjoy my children and savor the stage we are in.  You are at a needy age right now--where you can't/don't really play by yourself, you hang on my leg all day, and you make huge messes--but when I start to feel really frustrated, I remind myself, "This is a stage.  The hard parts of this stage will pass, but so will the perfect parts."  In those moments, I try to just stop and get down on the floor and look into the eyes of my wild, beautiful, urchin-angel, and soak in every bit of your insane cuteness.

I love you, Sally Grace Nielson.  Every night, not just on your birthday, I thank God that you are my daughter.  Yes, motherhood is exhausting, and when you are a mom there will be some days when you just have to go to sleep and look forward to a fresh start in the morning--but it is so worth it.  Someday you will be a mother, and only then will you understand just how much I love you. 

Thank you for being mine and for filling each day of my life with your wild sweetness.

I love you, to the moon and back.
Mama

A Letter to Noah for his Birthparents' Wedding

  

Dear Noah,

A few weeks ago, I watched as you walked down the aisle at your birthparents’ wedding.  You were wearing a little gray suit and a navy bowtie, looking handsome and perfect, so grown up and so tiny all at once.

You walked tentatively between the flower girls, Katie’s youngest sisters.  They are a few years older than you, and you looked up at them for guidance and approval as you clutched your little brown ring box and made your way slowly down the strip of grass that had been cleared for the occasion.  You smiled contentedly, a little shyly, as you walked along, happy to be included in something that you sensed was an important moment in the lives of many people whom you love.

Then you came to sit next to me, and I wrapped my arm around you as we listened to Katie and Drew’s wedding vows. I felt peace, deep peace burning in my heart—a swelling of gratitude, of awe, of miraculous love that transforms lives.

When you heard your name mentioned in the vows, you turned toward me with wide eyes and an even wider grin—surprised, thrilled.  Drew said to Katie, “On the night Noah was born, I was amazed by your strength, and I knew that we could get through anything together.”

It felt right, somehow, hearing your name spoken in their wedding vows.  You have been a key part of their love story—perhaps the real beginning of their love story.  I can’t speak for Katie and Drew, but it seems to me that what might have been teenage infatuation before you came into the picture turned into real, deep, unconditional, painful love as soon as they discovered that you were on your way.

They had to make agonizing decisions, they had to grow up, they had to support each other.  I remember those months just before and just after you were born—and as is the case in every love story, Katie and Drew had to fight for their love.  There were times when they disappointed each other, and there were times when they clung to each other. They learned then what it means to sacrifice for love.

And at the center of it all was a tiny baby whom they loved fiercely and whom they have loved every moment since.

That baby is you, Noah.

When they first asked if you could be the ringbearer in their wedding, I wasn’t sure what to think.  Was that too much pressure for you?  Would it be hard for you someday when you understand more clearly what adoption is?  Would it be awkward for the guests in attendance at the wedding?  Are you too much a symbol of their past when that day should be more focused on their future?

And what about the fact that Katie and Drew were getting married at all?  It’s an unusual situation in the adoption world, and it does bring up questions for everyone involved. Will you feel sad that they didn’t marry younger and decide to parent you?  Will they grieve that decision as well?  How will it feel for you to know your full-blooded biological siblings, the children that Katie and Drew will have together?  Will you resent that you are in our family instead of theirs?

These are hard questions to consider, and I openly admit that I don’t know the answers.  You will probably have lots of feelings about your adoption in your lifetime, and that is okay. Whatever you feel about it at any given point is totally fine. Adoption can be complicated, just like love can be complicated.  But despite all the questions, there are a few things that I have come to know over the past four years, and I want to share them with you, so you never wonder and you never forget.

I do know that Katie and Drew made their decision to place you for adoption out of love for you.  Being as young as they were, they didn’t know yet if they would marry, and they wanted you to have a mom and a dad, stability and siblings—an eternal family.  I saw the tears that poured from their eyes when they handed you to us in that hospital room just over four years ago.  I saw their hearts breaking.  I felt the Spirit of God that enveloped all of us and testified that this incomprehensible act of love was holy.

I do know that I feel to my very core, to the depths of my soul, that you are part of me and always have been.  You are mine.  I don’t mean that in a way that is possessive or diminishes the role of your birthparents in any way.  I mean that in a way that is sacred, that comes from a knowledge that is so deep within me that it’s hard to even verbalize.

You belong, Noah.  You belong with me and Dad and Sally.  I don’t know how that works in the grand scheme of biological vs. adopted, agency vs. predestination—I don’t have all of those answers.  What I do have is a quiet, firm, unmistakable peace that washes over me anytime I start to worry about the complex situations that are involved with adoption.  A voice inside of me, a voice from our Father in Heaven, says, “I am in control, Rachel, not you.  I love you, I love Ryan, I love Noah, I love Katie, I love Drew—and I have never let any of you down.  I work things together for good.  You don’t need to worry; you just need to trust.”

Which leads to the most important knowledge that I want to share with you, Noah: I do know that God is aware of us.  He has guided every step of this journey, and He will continue to do so.  I don’t question that anymore, and that alone gives me the assurance to press forward as new situations arise in your adoption story.

There were times early on that I felt consumed with worry. When Katie was openly and understandably grieving in that first year after you were born, I felt so many emotions—devastation and heartbreak for her, defensiveness and insecurity for me, confusion and anxiety for what that meant for your future.  Many people advised me to pull away from her a little, to close the adoption somewhat, for all of our sake.  But I just didn’t feel right about that. And when I prayed, I felt like Heavenly Father told me to show more love, more openness, not less.

He was right.  He is always right.  And the most beautiful relationship has developed between us and your birthparents in the years since.  It does not feel awkward; it does not feel forced; it does not feel competitive—

It feels like a gift. It feels miraculous. It feels sacred.  It will be one of the greatest blessings of my life to have experienced this kind of love.

I want you to know, Noah, that prayers throughout my life have not always been answered so directly—in fact, in every other area of my life, I have had to learn to wait for wisdom from our Father in Heaven, which generally comes little by little over months and years.  Even before you were born, as we waded through multiple adoption opportunities that didn’t work out, I usually didn’t have clear answers—I just proceeded in patience and faith.

But ever since I held you in my arms, questions about how to navigate open adoption have been answered very directly and almost immediately.  It has been astonishing and humbling to experience, and it has reinforced how much God cares about you.  He has granted me divine inspiration in my role as your adoptive mother that He has not granted me in other areas of my life.  I am grateful beyond words for that blessing, as it has brought peace to situations that might otherwise have been difficult or sensitive.

I feel like He has granted you this kind of insight and inspiration as well, even at your young age.  A few months ago, a friend of mine was surprised to find out that you know your birthparents.  “Does he know what that means?” she asked, a little incredulous. “Well, I have explained adoption to him,” I said, “but he’s only three-years-old, so it’s hard to know what he’s really grasping.”  Then I paused and decided, “Why don’t we just ask him?”<

You were playing nearby on the floor, and I said, “Noah, what does it mean that Katie and Drew are your birthparents?”

You straightened up from your Lego train and thought for a moment, and then you said matter-of-factly, “A long time ago, Mom's body was sick. So Heavenly Father sent Katie to us, and she helped me get to my family.  And that’s called adoption.”

The room was completely silent for a moment as my friend and I absorbed your answer, stunned.  That wisdom did not come from me, Noah.  I never could’ve described adoption so well.  Ever since you were tiny, I explained it to you the best that I could, and then Heavenly Father helped you to put the pieces together in your little mind and testified to you that you are where you belong.  That Katie and Drew were a gift to us.  That this has all been one huge, inexplicable, remarkable miracle.

Heavenly Father has done what He promises—He has worked things together for good.

 

Noah, I want you to know that as you approached Katie and Drew with the little ring box on their wedding day, it felt so right.  All of the questions that I’d had about whether or not it was appropriate to have you as their ringbearer just faded away.  Your adoption story is one of the rare occurrences in life when it is so obvious, so visible, that love has come full circle: where one act of love has lead to another, which has lead to another, which has lead to another—and it will continue on into eternity.

There is no end to love, Noah.  And as I watched Katie and Drew take each other by the hand as husband and wife, I thought of two seventeen-year-old kids in a hospital room in the middle of the night.  I saw them cradling a newborn baby—kissing you and marveling over you, rejoicing in a new life that had been born to bless us all.

I thank God for those kids who have become adults—who showed me four years ago what true love is, and who have been showing me ever since.

Thank God for miracles, thank God for happily ever after.

And thank God for you, Noah, and all the love that you have taught us.

With gratitude and awe,

Your Mama

 

48 Months, 1460 Days

Dear Noah,

I examined your face at breakfast this morning, your almond-shaped blue eyes still a little crusted with sleep.  You were talking a mile-a-minute, I’m not sure about what.  You talk so much that it’s easy to tune you out—not in a mean way, just because I’m used to your chatter being the soundtrack of our home.  As you jabbered, I looked closely at your face, and it struck me that even though you are getting so big, so grown up, I can still see my little baby boy in those blue eyes.  You look the same—you are the same—even though you grow smarter, more independent, and older by the day.

You are four now.  It’s so hard to believe.  We have spent 48 months together—1460 days.  Through it all, you’ve become my buddy.  I know you, heart and soul. 

You live life BIG.  Big voice, big expressions, big laughter, big emotions. When you are happy, you are elated.  When you are mad, you are raging.  You aren’t sure what to do with all of that energy, and neither am I, but we are working on it every day, and I feel like we are learning.  I feel like we get each other, and even when you drive me absolutely bonkers (which you do on a regular basis), I still feel like we are the best of friends.

You are perceptive.  You can read me, and you can read your environment.  You ask me questions about life that surprise me for a four-year-old, but I answer them straight.  There’s nothing that I want more as a mother than to teach you.

 

You love to dance to Justin Bieber's "Baby" when you unload the dishwasher, and your favorite part is when "that funny guy" (AKA Ludacris ) starts rapping in the middle of it.  We listen to it on repeat. 

You are smart and insightful and you love books.  I hope you are this way forever.  On library days, I read you all six of your books in the hammock for bedtime, and it is a treat for both of us.

You are loving and good, and you are very willing to give me kisses and snuggles on demand.  You call me “Mother” which always makes me smile. (I think you got it from watching Peter Pan, one of your current favorites.)

You are certainly a firecracker.  You are feisty and strong-willed.  But you also make me laugh every day—admittedly it’s sometimes just in retrospect, after the moment of frustration has passed, but you really are hilarious.  I keep a note in my phone of the funny and frustrating things that you say, and here is just a sampling from the last few months:

When approaching some older kids at the park, you said, “Excuse me!  I’d like to be your friend, and that means you have to listen to me!”

When we took our bikes to be serviced, you were amazed by the repair guy and all his tools.  You sat and watched him while he worked (meaning you sat and jabbered at him and asked him a million questions that he wasn't able to answer because you just kept talking), and I went up to the front of the store to pay.   Over the din of the shop, I heard you stop with your questions for a moment and then ask in an awestruck tone, “Excuse me, sir.  Are you called a bike expert?”

When we were telling you a story about Jesus at family night, Dad said, “Jesus had some friends who traveled with him and helped him teach.” You interjected and said, “Dad, they’re called disciples!!”  Surprised that you knew that word, and wanting to test your knowledge a little, I asked, “And what did the disciples do for work, before they started traveling with Jesus?” You paused to think and then answered confidently, “Mom, they were fishermen!” Well alright then.  I guess someone has been listening when we read to you from your illustrated Bible at bedtime. 

When we went to a local candy shop, the elderly store owner told us that his wife makes all of the caramels.  A few minutes later, a white-haired lady appeared from the back of the store, and you said matter-of-factly, “She’s about to die.”  Hahaha!  I don’t think she heard you, and maybe it’s a good thing!

When your electric train developed a short a few months ago, you were devastated, but then Grandpa saved the day by fixing it.  I heard you telling the story to your babysitter, Baylee, and you told it just like one of the storybooks that we read to you: “Once upon a time, a long long time ago, this train that you see right here stopped working.  But then Grandpa came from Pocatello and took it back to his workshop…” It was a very dramatic tale!

When we were looking through my wedding album recently, I said, “Noah, I’m so glad I married your dad.”  “Why?” you asked.  “Because he is my best friend,” I responded.  You thought about it for a moment and then said, “Okay, I will marry Callum then.”

When you were talking to a friend about this beloved older cousin, you admitted, “Callum is better than Noah—but no one else is!”

When you pray, you almost always end by saying, “And bless me, Noah.”  I’m so glad you clarify who you are, just in case God isn’t sure. ;)

When you were recently stalling on the way to Quiet Time, you insisted, "But Mom, I'm hungry!" I asked, "How can you be hungry when you just ate lunch?"  You thought about it for a moment and then replied, "I don't think the food is in my stomach anymore; I think it's probably in my large intestine by now!" (Thanks to your Usborne See Inside My Body book for teaching you all about the digestive system!)

When I ask you not to do something dangerous, such as grab sharp steak knives out of the cupboard or climb onto the top of the minivan, you often say things like, “Mom, I know what I’m doing.”  You even said this when you went flying with Grandpa and he wouldn’t let you land his plane!

When we went to the Farmer’s Market, you asked me if we could pause and look at a little irrigation pool nearby.  I said of course, and as you looked at that muddy puddle of water in the middle of a field, you sighed and said, “I just feel joy when I look at this.” 

When you are telling me a long story or making a point, you often smack your lips between words for some sort of dramatic emphasis.  I think you listen to the subtleties of the ways that adults talk and you mimic it.

When you are frustrated and want to hit or yell, you suck your lips in and subconsciously start making a machine gun type of noise.  You have no idea that you do it, but it’s a good warning sign for me because I know I need to grab Sally out of your line of fire before you lash out. 

When I wouldn’t buy you a donut at the grocery store recently, you were so angry and started shouting things like, “Now I will never know what that donut tastes like—not ever, until I die!” 

When you’re mad at me and I ask you to do something, you often say in a sassy, dismissive voice, “Whoever cares!”  Oh my--it’s like you are fourteen, not four.  

When I have to haul you out of church because you are being rambunctious or into your bedroom because you are wailing during family dinner, you are full of threats like, “You’re not my mom anymore!  I’m not going to do anything you say, not ever! Even for your whole life!”

And yet even though you can be sassy, when I sneak into your room and kiss you goodnight before I head to bed myself, you sometimes mutter something absurdly sweet like, “I love you more than anything in this whole world.”  (I think you’ve heard your mama say similar things to you!)

When we play your favorite game “Chest” (Chess), you tell me, “This is a killing game.”  Haha!  Whoever thought that the quintessential nerd game could be seen as a killing game?  But you simply love taking out my pawns and bishops.  The other day while we were playing you told me, “I killed him because he killed my brother.” I laughed aloud, thinking of our chess pieces challenging each other to duels like a scene from my favorite 80s movie: “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya—you killed my father. Prepare to die.”

When you recently stole a plate of brownies off the counter and hid in your room to eat them all (you have an insane sweet tooth), I demanded angrily, “Noah, what were you thinking??”  Obviously this was a rhetorical question, but you looked at me so seriously and said, “Mom, I don’t know what I was thinking!  My brain got all zig-zaggy!”  I had to hold back a little giggle at that explanation—it’s actually pretty accurate and profound!

Oh, my boy—you make me laugh.  You make me smile and shake my head in amazement.  But you also make me feel frustrated and inadequate at times, with your huge emotions.  I’ve started being more diligent about planning a weekly Family Home Evening, now that you are old enough to learn and understand.  I love having a weekly opportunity to teach you, in an environment that isn’t heated.

Last week I cut out two pictures that I printed from the Internet: a knife and a Band-aid.  We talked about the difference between “cutting words” and “healing words.”  You certainly have the ability to do either with your big vocabulary.  You have fixated on the words “hate” and “stupid” lately, and though I know that’s a normal phase for kids who are testing their limits, I never like to hear you say that you hate me or that I am a stupid mommy.  Both of those insults have been hurled at me occasionally, such as during the grocery store incident when I wouldn’t buy you the donut, and they have been hurled at your dad and your sister as well.  It makes my blood boil to hear those words used at the ones who love you the most—but I also know the anger that you are feeling when you lash out, the unthinking "zig-zaggy" anger.  I have felt that before, and I have learned to do other things with my anger than yell mean words.  You will learn too.  

These are laminated pictures.  My son is not wielding a huge sharp knife.

After warning you that if it happened again I would wash your mouth with soap, you told Dad that you hated him a few days ago, so I had to follow through.  I put a tiny bit of soapy water on my hand and wiped it in your mouth.  Even though it was almost no soap, you were furious.  You told me, "That consequence needs to be thrown out the window!"  Hahaha!  You went on to say angrily, "Mom, that doesn't make me want to say healing words!  It makes me want to say more cutting words at you!!"

Again I was shaking my head at how well you express some pretty complex emotions.  Maybe you're right: maybe putting soapy water in your mouth invites a power struggle more than it invites learning--I don't know.  (But in my defense, you haven't said "I hate you!" again since receiving that consequence.)  As I told a friend recently, "I have no idea what I'm doing in this parenting gig!"  But I am sure trying, and I know that you are too.  We will just keep teaching and growing and loving and learning—all of us.

I recently went to a religious class where the teacher talked about God’s tender mercies.  She asked us if we’d ever experienced miracles in our lives, and the very first thing I thought of was you.  Tears sprang to my eyes and an awe settled over me, a deep and internal acknowledgement of what a gift it is to be your mother.

You were my first miracle, Noah Atticus Nielson, and you continue to be my miracle every day. 

I love you, and I love mothering you.  You teach me so much, and I am growing just as much as you are as we spend these days together.  Here’s to another year of months and moments spent learning from each other.

As I tell you often, and as you sometimes tell me in your sleep, I love you more than anything in this whole world.  I truly do.

Hugs and Kisses,

Mother

A Little Life Unfolding

Sweetest Sweetest Baby Girl,

I watched you today on the video monitor as you woke from your afternoon nap. You lay there for a moment, groggy and disoriented, sucking your pacifier and listening to the happy noises of your brother playing in his room next door.

Then you noticed the balloons.You lifted your tiny finger and pointed, not sure what you were seeing.

You got up slowly on your knees, your hair a mess of bedhead, your big blue eyes full of wonder as you tilted your head upward. You didn’t reach for them at first, but just looked at them, thoughtful.

After a minute or so, you stood and reached.And I felt that familiar ache, that swelling that feels like gratitude and melancholy all at once, at the sight of my tiny human on tippy toes, stretching toward her first birthday balloons.

Brother and I snuck the balloons into your room while you were napping. He was so excited, and although I knew there was a chance that he would wake you, I let him help me anyway.  He is your best friend, your only real playmate, and you adore him. You don’t say “Mama” yet, but you do say “Noah.”  Of course that beloved big brother of yours had to be part of the balloon surprise.

Like the angel that you are, you slept right through our sneaking.  You have turned into a champion napper, and you’ve always been a really content baby.  You have made the last year easy on me, and I love you for it.  Sweetness seems to be an innate part of your disposition.

A year ago today, when you were a tiny, bruised, sleepy newborn, I held you in my arms and wondered what you would be like.  It was hard to imagine how you would fit into our family dynamic, what your temperament would be like, how I would manage with two children at home.  Though I loved you immediately, you didn’t feel familiar yet.  You felt fragile, and I felt fragile in my role as your mother.   

Now everything about you is familiar: the way you wriggle away when I change your diaper, the sound of your giggle as I chase after you on hands and knees; the way you pull at my earrings the moment that I lift you close to my face, or lunge for me when I walk into the room and you are in someone else’s arms.

I know what you will do before you do it.  You have become an extension of me—a living, breathing, bear-crawling piece of my heart.  And though everything about your babyhood is so familiar to me now, I know that in a few years, I won’t be able to remember what you were like as a one-year-old.  I will remember in generalities, but not in all of these specifics.  You will be a little girl to me then, and I will know with perfect clarity everything about you at that stage, but all that will remain of your babyhood will be the photos and videos—and the details that I have captured in writing.  Which is why I do it and always will.

So tonight I sit down and write you this letter to record the moment when I watched you wake up to balloons overhead on your first birthday—when my heart filled with love for my perfect one-year-old girl with the curls at the back of your head, the one darling snaggle tooth, and the sweetest habit of burying your head against my shoulder when you are sleepy.

You are a perfect fit, not just in that space on my shoulder, cradled between my cheek and my heart, but in this family.  You have made every day since your birth better than the days before it—fuller, more complete—for all of us.  For Daddy, for Noah, and for me.

Tonight the four of us played with your birthday balloons out in the backyard and took photos of you climbing on Noah’s red firetruck.  It was windy, and it was past your bedtime. Noah was wired, and Mom and Dad were a little cranky, but we took a few moments to talk about our wishes for you for this next year and to release your balloons one by one into the sky.

Noah wished that you will have a delicious cake on Saturday at your little family party; Dad wished that you will get more teeth this next year (of course he did); and I wished that even when you are older, you will keep giving me your sweet snuggles—nestling up against my heart when you are tired.

The first couple of balloons blew out of our hands before you even noticed, but as we sent that last purple balloon floating into the sky, you raised your finger to point.  Daddy held you in his arms and pressed his cheek against yours, and we watched that purple speck rise up up up and then disappear—the beauty of this day, this year, lingering.

Thank you for making my heart so buoyant, so full of awe and gratitude when I think about you that it too soars heavenward.  Tonight I thank God that I am your mother, that I get to witness this beautiful little life unfolding.

Happy first birthday, my perfect little love.  Sleep tight.  I can't wait to see you first thing tomorrow morning.

Yours forever and ever and always,

Mama

Love Letter to a Little Cherub

Baby Girl,

I peeked into your crib this morning as I got ready to leave for my early-morning flight to San Diego.  You were curled up on your tummy, your sweet little bum in the air, your chest rising and falling with your steady breaths. 

And then the smell of you—that perfect baby smell of you—wafted up, catching me off guard, making my heart seize at the thought of leaving you. 

You are a treasure.  A squishy, blue-eyed, army-crawling treasure.  You scoot your way along the carpet, a little inch worm intent on reaching whatever it is that has caught your attention—a package of wipes, a sheet of paper from the printer, a cord from the computer charger.  It was just this week that you really started getting around—you are suddenly into everything, and you want everything in your mouth.  Let the baby-proofing begin!

The other day, I laid you down on the floor in my bedroom for a moment, then ran back into the kitchen to do something, and when I came back you were gone.  I could hear you, but I couldn’t see you—until I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the bed. 

There you were, big blue eyes staring back at me, a grin spreading across your face as soon as our eyes met.

“What are you doing under there, Baby Girl?” I asked laughing, delighted and shocked by your new mobility.

You rolled your way to the other side of the bed, content as you could be in your newfound cave, and when you got close to the other side, I grabbed your roly-poly little leg and pulled you out, tickling your belly and making you laugh.

You make me feel so loved.  The way your face lights up when I come to get you out of your crib in the morning, the way you crane your neck to find me whenever you are in someone else’s arms.

I love when I feed you bottles and you look at my face so intently, reaching up to touch my hair or my cheek or to tug on my glasses.  The other night, you pulled my glasses down to the tip of my nose as you were drinking, and I peered over them and said, “Well hello there.”  You giggled appreciatively, and the milk in your mouth spilled down your chin and onto my shirt. A messy, perfect moment.

And when you were finished, I put you up against my shoulder and gently burped you, as I always do. It’s the one time of day that you are willing to be quietly snuggled, and you nuzzled your head into the crook of my neck and relaxed, your tiny body melting into my chest, heavy and warm.  As you drifted off to sleep, I rocked and rocked and breathed you in and out, in and out—our hearts beating together, my heart full to the brim with gratitude for you.

You were so worth it.  Worth every uncomfortable fertility treatment, every shot, every hormone-induced breakdown—worth every moment of nine-months of nausea, every tearful morning in the recliner with a trashcan in my lap. 

You, my precious daughter, are a miracle.  And each day as I search your face—your dimpled chin, your rosy cheeks, your pink cherub lips, your crazy cowlicked hairline—I am reminded again of God’s tender mercies.  Again and again and again—every day of your life, I will be reminded.

I am grateful beyond words to be your mother.  Just when I didn’t know if my heart could hold more love for my family, you came along and showed me that it could.

On this Valentine’s Day morning, as I am minutes away from boarding a plane that will take me far away from you, it seems only appropriate to share one of my favorite poems.  These sweet words express how I feel about you, my little love, and how I will be feeling these next few days without you:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

I will love you forever and ever and always, Sally Grace.

Adoringly,

Your Mama