Dear Adalyn

October 8, 2013

Dear Adalyn,

One year ago, you were still Sparkle to most of the world. My belly still hid my view of my toes as it rolled with your flips and turns. Your nursery did not smell of poopy diapers, and we had 70% more brain power than our current mode of operation. 

One year ago, we headed bright-eyed and clueless to the hospital to be induced, due to a lovely condition called pre-eclampsia. We proceeded to spend the day walking laps, bouncing on the ball, eating popsicles, cursing catheters (our friend, “George”), greeting your beloved people’s campground, and hoping to be more than 1 cm dilated.  One year ago, we learned that the labor-prep class was a load of malarkey when they broke my water and any pre-conceived notions I had about pain.

One year ago, we didn’t know your face, your hands, your chubby little toes; we were still talking to the tumble of limbs through my belly, the roll of someone we couldn’t wait to meet. We hadn’t heard your voice, answered your squeaky squawks, soothed your midnight cries, or found your sunshine laugh. One year ago, our house had an organized basket of a couple infant toys and burp cloths that had not yet been unloaded 500 times a day, and on good days, cleaned up 501. The vacuum hadn’t chased your little feet every couple of days, and Wallie’s diet was actual dog food, not The High Chair Special. We left the house when we wanted, and we could shout, hammer, and turn on the blender or lawn mower outside the nursery window at 2pm, because no baby was napping in there.  One year ago today, we’d not army- crawled through the kitchen; the pots and pans were still a drum set waiting to be discovered. We hadn’t shown you the world from on top of a mountain, or sat you in a castle made of sand as the ocean rolled by.  

One year ago today, with your dad on one side, an angel-nurse named Amber on the other, and the best midwife ever coaching us all through, you came into our world. We laughed and cried and talked to you like we’d known you forever, because you were ours. One year ago, your grandparents, aunties, uncles and village of love had waited for hours, and hours, and hours in the VBH lobby, waiting for word that Sparkle had arrived. They passed you around, looking into your little face, cooing and staring and in awe, just like us.

 

One year ago, the leaves changed like they always did; the weather cooled like it always did; the squirrels ate our pumpkin on the front porch, like they always did.  But our world had changed.  October was a blur of hospital rooms and bed rest, diaper changes, blood pressure readings, pajamas and boob pumps, thank you notes, frozen casseroles, dear friends visiting, and new discoveries like how fuzzy your hair was after bath time, the terror of cutting an infant’s finger nails, the hilarity of baby burps, and how a well-written child’s book could make us bawl like a newborn.

One year ago, we started learning. Sheaff and I learned about tar poops and bopies, about bellybutton nasties and comfy baby wraps.  We learned nap time schedules, how sunshines made you smile, the bouncy chair, rice cereal, what songs put you to sleep (Hello Dolly, Peace Like a River, City of New Orleans), the easiest outfits to put on, hanging cloth diapers on the line, and what toys work best on road trips. (Answer: none, it is the dog leash and empty water bottle). We learned how to be “that parent” who was okay with calling the pediatric hotline the first time you grabbed your ear. We learned there is always someone on the curb (Granny leading the tradition) who is willing to hold, rock and gently love you.

And now, we keep learning. That’s all we’ve done in the past year, is kept on learning, and figuring it out step by step, just as a wobbly and excited as you are now, holding on to the people around you while racing like hell forward.

Who knows what we will write next year. And the year after, and the year after.  But I do know that one year ago, we brought you into the world, a child who is full of joy, smiles, adventure, and love from your ankle-crossed-feet to your Cindy-Lou-Who hair. You are the best thing I’ve ever done, with the best person I’ve ever loved.  And I cannot wait to celebrate you, every year.

Love Always,

Mom