Dear Bria

May 9, 2016

Dear Bria,

I still remember the day we found out about you. My hands were shaking as I read the pregnancy test, watching that little line appear. For the first time, I knew that it was going to be positive. After so many months of hoping, waiting, hoping, waiting…..There you were. A little line, as if to say, “Hey guys, I'm here!”  I remember how fast I grew with you, how everyone was sure you were a boy from looking at my huge belly.  Addie called you Honey, and gasped every time you kicked her hand from the inside. “She gonna come out?” she’d ask, eyeing my stomach, no idea what being your big sister meant yet.

A year ago, we had checked into the hospital, waited for contractions, happily winced as our wonderful nurse Elizabeth cranked up the Pitocin with a big smile on her face. You were coming. And once we got to the ‘real’ stuff, you came fast – four minutes, two pushes. And you haven’t slowed down since.

They say the second baby gets less attention, but I can tell you, you’ve never been less. And you’ve only given more. You were loved by so many the minute you came into this world. You had a village waiting to love you, to hold you, to welcome you into our world.  The first time Addie held you, she oh-so-lovingly yanked off your hat to pat your head, and sneezed on you within 2 seconds. She read to you; she sang to you; she counted your fingers; she snapped your pajamas. And our hearts doubled.

Chasing you around the yard and up stairs, watching you inhale meatloaf and peanut butter sandwich pieces, it’s wild to remember that a year ago, my heart would seize with worry for each bump we faced after you were born. Every pound you gained was celebrated; every week when your skin became a little less jaundiced and your liver a little smarter; every successful nursing; every sign that told us you were getting healthy was a sigh of relief.

You were a fussy little peanut. You were all ears. You were a tiny ball of love in the baby wrap, and a snuggle bug on your sister’s shoulder. You were a roller, a mover, a wiggle monster. You were a stubborn burper and an absolute terror from 8pm-11pm. You were an ambitious wee elf, with sparkly eyes and long lashes and a pursed little mischievous mouth. You were a sweet comfort to rock at Grandma’s service in June, the Rose in your name reminding us of the two roses that bloomed through the gardens last summer.

You have grown from the tiny baby at Addie’s activities into her playmate; you have grown from newborn midnight cries to squawky declarations, and okay…still midnight cries. You've gone from a tuft of hair to an all-out poof. You are a toothy grinner; a peekaboo expert; a Wallie wanna-be; an enthusiastic kisser; a trifling cousin and sister, and an absolutely determined, strong, goofy, loving child.

When I held you in my arms one year ago, I felt this calm, deep gratitude for the special little love laying on my chest, a gratitude that has only grown as you practice those tiny steps, wrap us in hugs, giggle with your sister, play with your daddy, grow with your village, and lay your head on my shoulder at night, heavy in my arms and fast asleep. From the moment that tiny line appeared, you have given such joy. I can't wait to watch and celebrate as you grow and become. And every year in May, when the flowers bloom and the earth springs to life, my heart will be loving the story of you and how it all began with those 5 pounds and 14 ounces of a sweet newborn-smelling baby, looking up from our arms in the fuzzy hours of your very first night to say, "Hey guys, I'm here."  I am so thankful every day that you are. 

Love,

Mom