J
Jenn
Guest
One year newsletter
Dear Caitie,
Today you turned one year old.
The past year has been an incredible one, for you, for us. To say it’s been a journey would be a gross understatement.
You’re our little miracle, and I realize that every day. Even when you’re whining and I’m frustrated, I never want to give up. I don’t want to quit or hire someone else to do the job for me. I just want to find a way to make it better.
There have been a million moments in the past year that have been epiphanies for me.
When I held you in my arms when you were squishy and new and you fell asleep, just a warm bundle of blankets with a little bit of baby buried somewhere in there, I thought to myself, ah, this is why people have babies.
When you turned into a screaming gargoyle the night we brought you home from the hospital, I thought to myself, why do people have babies?
When you were thirteen days old and you smiled your first smile at me, a real smile, I knew, this was why people have babies.
When you blew out of your diaper for the first time and required a bath and a lot of stain remover for your clothes to get the poop off of everything, I wondered, why do people have babies, again?
When you laughed for the first time, your big belly laugh, I thought yes, this is why people have babies.
When I was in the throes of post-partum depression and hated myself and everyone but you, I wondered why I’d had a baby. Hey, I’m not proud of it. But that’s what hormones do to you sometimes.
When you rolled over for the first time and I couldn’t believe how proud I was of you, I figured, this is why people have babies.
When you were almost six months old and still sleeping with me and still not sleeping through the night, I wondered, why, if it meant losing so much sleep, people have babies.
When you started eating solids and gobbled up every morsel and wanted more, I thought, wonderful, this is why people have babies.
When we started doing cry it out, and you cried for 46 minutes one night, I sat in my room, listening to you wail through the wall and over the monitor, every nerve begging me to go get you and hold you close, I wondered if it is supposed to be so hard to have babies.
When you learned to scoot forward on your belly and then to crawl, and my arms were free for the first time in months, I said to myself, ah, this is why people have babies.
When you starting putting everything you found on the floor into your mouth – including Squaggle poop – I thought, ew, babies are gross.
When you said your first real word – daddy – I wasn’t disappointed that you didn’t say mama. I was so proud that you’d turned your babbling into a real word. I hugged you and fussed over you and I thought I knew, this is why people have babies.
The truth is, it’s not any one of these moments that makes me so happy to have you. It’s every moment of every day, from the big hugs you give me every morning and after every nap, to teaching you and seeing you learn new gestures and words, to making you giggle as I change your diaper. You’re growing so fast that my heart can hardly keep up to you. You’re taking in every experience and new place and new object with such an avid curiosity that it makes me look at every moment, every location and every thing in a new light.
You’ve given me a thousand gifts – and I’m not just talking about the smelly presents in your diapers. Your gifts are beyond the slobbery kisses and hugs, the shared cookies, the bits of food left over from your meals that I get to eat. You’ve made me softer and harder at the same time, disorganized and yet more organized, focused and yet unfocused, braver and yet completed terrified. You’ve slowed down my life at the same time you sped it up. I can’t believe a whole year has flown by, and yet, I remember so many moments, so many milliseconds, so many memories that we’ve made together. Undoubtedly, I have more memories from this past year than any of the previous 25!
That’s what you’ve done for us. You’ve made every second worth remembering, life worth living, the future worth planning for. Because you’re in our lives, we strive to make everything better because we want you to have the best we can offer you. You’re the reason your daddy works so hard. You’re the reason mommy worries so much. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Often, after you’re tucked in and sleeping, your daddy and I look at each other and then one of us smiles, remembering something you’d done earlier. It might just be a mental picture of you with your adorable pigtails, or you bothering the bird, or a new word you tried to imitate. Looking at your little stand up piano might make us think of how, just a few hours ago, you were standing at it, hitting the keys and dancing to your own music, shaking your round little diaper bum in rhythm to the notes. And when we’re in bed, listening to the quiet hum of your humidifier over the baby monitor, I’ll whisper to your daddy, “Guess how big Caitie is?†and he’ll say, “How big?†and I’ll say “SO BIG!†just like I do when you throw your arms over your head to show us how big you are. Then we’ll laugh quietly to ourselves to cover up how much we miss you when you sleep.
There are days I can’t wait for you to have a nap. Regardless of what I want to get done while you’re sleeping, by the time you chatter yourself to sleep, I’m already waiting for you to wake up. I rush through my chores, carrying with me the baby monitor that has become like a life support system to me, my ears straining to hear your every change of position, your every sigh. When you wake up I sometimes listen to you for a few moments, because you sound so sweet. You softly tell your Nemo and Elmo all about what you’ve dreamed before you kneel and then stand in your crib. When I hear the sound of you bouncing up and down on the mattress – the baby equivalent of jumping on a bed – I come in to get you. Without fail, you’re happy to see me.
Turns out, you miss mommy as much as mommy misses you when you sleep.
If we were to sum up the past year mathematically, I guess we could compare how much you’ve grown. You were overdue by one day. It took 109 hours to have you. When you were born, you were 7 lbs, 15 oz. and 19.5 inches long. Now you’re 26 lbs. and 31 inches long. You used to need to be fed at least every two hours around the clock. Now you eat four meals a day plus snacks plus five or six bottles and you sleep through the night. You used to sleep most of the day away, now you sleep for about 14 hours including naps – sometimes more, sometimes less. You used to just lie where I put you. Now you make laps around the house. I must have walked miles around the house with you against my chest, now you make those miles on your own.
Quantify and compare as I might, there’s no way I can add up the past year. You've made me softer and harder, kinder and fiercer, smarter and more scattered. I'd do anything to protect you and keep you safe. You’re my reason for everything.
Every night, before I put you in your crib, I tell you that I love you more than anything in the world. Every night, I mean it with my whole heart.
Because you, kid, you ARE my heart.
Love,
Mama.
Dear Caitie,
Today you turned one year old.
The past year has been an incredible one, for you, for us. To say it’s been a journey would be a gross understatement.
You’re our little miracle, and I realize that every day. Even when you’re whining and I’m frustrated, I never want to give up. I don’t want to quit or hire someone else to do the job for me. I just want to find a way to make it better.
There have been a million moments in the past year that have been epiphanies for me.
When I held you in my arms when you were squishy and new and you fell asleep, just a warm bundle of blankets with a little bit of baby buried somewhere in there, I thought to myself, ah, this is why people have babies.
When you turned into a screaming gargoyle the night we brought you home from the hospital, I thought to myself, why do people have babies?
When you were thirteen days old and you smiled your first smile at me, a real smile, I knew, this was why people have babies.
When you blew out of your diaper for the first time and required a bath and a lot of stain remover for your clothes to get the poop off of everything, I wondered, why do people have babies, again?
When you laughed for the first time, your big belly laugh, I thought yes, this is why people have babies.
When I was in the throes of post-partum depression and hated myself and everyone but you, I wondered why I’d had a baby. Hey, I’m not proud of it. But that’s what hormones do to you sometimes.
When you rolled over for the first time and I couldn’t believe how proud I was of you, I figured, this is why people have babies.
When you were almost six months old and still sleeping with me and still not sleeping through the night, I wondered, why, if it meant losing so much sleep, people have babies.
When you started eating solids and gobbled up every morsel and wanted more, I thought, wonderful, this is why people have babies.
When we started doing cry it out, and you cried for 46 minutes one night, I sat in my room, listening to you wail through the wall and over the monitor, every nerve begging me to go get you and hold you close, I wondered if it is supposed to be so hard to have babies.
When you learned to scoot forward on your belly and then to crawl, and my arms were free for the first time in months, I said to myself, ah, this is why people have babies.
When you starting putting everything you found on the floor into your mouth – including Squaggle poop – I thought, ew, babies are gross.
When you said your first real word – daddy – I wasn’t disappointed that you didn’t say mama. I was so proud that you’d turned your babbling into a real word. I hugged you and fussed over you and I thought I knew, this is why people have babies.
The truth is, it’s not any one of these moments that makes me so happy to have you. It’s every moment of every day, from the big hugs you give me every morning and after every nap, to teaching you and seeing you learn new gestures and words, to making you giggle as I change your diaper. You’re growing so fast that my heart can hardly keep up to you. You’re taking in every experience and new place and new object with such an avid curiosity that it makes me look at every moment, every location and every thing in a new light.
You’ve given me a thousand gifts – and I’m not just talking about the smelly presents in your diapers. Your gifts are beyond the slobbery kisses and hugs, the shared cookies, the bits of food left over from your meals that I get to eat. You’ve made me softer and harder at the same time, disorganized and yet more organized, focused and yet unfocused, braver and yet completed terrified. You’ve slowed down my life at the same time you sped it up. I can’t believe a whole year has flown by, and yet, I remember so many moments, so many milliseconds, so many memories that we’ve made together. Undoubtedly, I have more memories from this past year than any of the previous 25!
That’s what you’ve done for us. You’ve made every second worth remembering, life worth living, the future worth planning for. Because you’re in our lives, we strive to make everything better because we want you to have the best we can offer you. You’re the reason your daddy works so hard. You’re the reason mommy worries so much. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Often, after you’re tucked in and sleeping, your daddy and I look at each other and then one of us smiles, remembering something you’d done earlier. It might just be a mental picture of you with your adorable pigtails, or you bothering the bird, or a new word you tried to imitate. Looking at your little stand up piano might make us think of how, just a few hours ago, you were standing at it, hitting the keys and dancing to your own music, shaking your round little diaper bum in rhythm to the notes. And when we’re in bed, listening to the quiet hum of your humidifier over the baby monitor, I’ll whisper to your daddy, “Guess how big Caitie is?†and he’ll say, “How big?†and I’ll say “SO BIG!†just like I do when you throw your arms over your head to show us how big you are. Then we’ll laugh quietly to ourselves to cover up how much we miss you when you sleep.
There are days I can’t wait for you to have a nap. Regardless of what I want to get done while you’re sleeping, by the time you chatter yourself to sleep, I’m already waiting for you to wake up. I rush through my chores, carrying with me the baby monitor that has become like a life support system to me, my ears straining to hear your every change of position, your every sigh. When you wake up I sometimes listen to you for a few moments, because you sound so sweet. You softly tell your Nemo and Elmo all about what you’ve dreamed before you kneel and then stand in your crib. When I hear the sound of you bouncing up and down on the mattress – the baby equivalent of jumping on a bed – I come in to get you. Without fail, you’re happy to see me.
Turns out, you miss mommy as much as mommy misses you when you sleep.
If we were to sum up the past year mathematically, I guess we could compare how much you’ve grown. You were overdue by one day. It took 109 hours to have you. When you were born, you were 7 lbs, 15 oz. and 19.5 inches long. Now you’re 26 lbs. and 31 inches long. You used to need to be fed at least every two hours around the clock. Now you eat four meals a day plus snacks plus five or six bottles and you sleep through the night. You used to sleep most of the day away, now you sleep for about 14 hours including naps – sometimes more, sometimes less. You used to just lie where I put you. Now you make laps around the house. I must have walked miles around the house with you against my chest, now you make those miles on your own.
Quantify and compare as I might, there’s no way I can add up the past year. You've made me softer and harder, kinder and fiercer, smarter and more scattered. I'd do anything to protect you and keep you safe. You’re my reason for everything.
Every night, before I put you in your crib, I tell you that I love you more than anything in the world. Every night, I mean it with my whole heart.
Because you, kid, you ARE my heart.
Love,
Mama.
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