Dear Bria

May 9, 2017

Dear Bria,

Two years ago, your dad woke up at 5am and started calling the hospital to see if any rooms were ready; it was time to meet you. We didn’t actually go to the hospital until about 3pm, and we walked around and around the block, hoping it would make inducing easier; it was 3 weeks before your due date. And it might have helped. The Pitocin sure hurt beforehand, but you were born at 1:24am: two pushes, and there you were.

You are two, today. Two! It suits you, funny girl. You are eager and timid; you’re demanding and chill; you started out so small, and now folks ask us if you and Adalyn are twins because you’ve nearly caught up. Your words are starting to come, although you’ve invented some far-off translations (somehow ‘bosh’ is spoon). But you’ve come a long way from “doh,” your favorite word for most of Year One. You carry on conversations, complete with your signature “uh-HUH!” when we grown ups get something right.  You love songs; you love photo books; you love running in this slide-gallop that cracks us up regularly. You love your people, your sister, your friends, your grandparents, your aunts and uncles and cousins both human and fur, so many who make your life awesome.

 You live for Wednesday storytime at the library, “choo-choo” and baby shark and bringing toys to Ms. Bev (a hopeful teacher’s pet, just like your mama). You leap and gallop and sprint and flip and swing at gymnastics, proudly waving your ‘nash-tics’ stamp on your hand afterwards. You go nuts when you see Elmo or anything Sesame Street, and you can smell out a cell phone, wanting to look at pictures, no matter where we hide it from you. You read Goodnight Gorilla, Pete the Cat, and The Pout Pout Fish nightly, and any book with trucks or tractors.

You copy everything your sister does, from drawing to tag to dance moves to swinging; you love her so much. You've slept with this grubby small elephant every night, holding on to him by his tail as you traipse off to bed. You are terrified of sledding, boats and elevators, and your sob-face when these things come into your life is both hilarious and heartwrenching.  You’re always a little bit dirty, getting into things, rolling around with Wallie, your favorite creature besides Addie.

You aren’t a baby anymore. You wanted nothing to do with your crib once Santa brought those bunk beds, and your naps may be soon to follow. Some days I need to time to slow down when I miss those days of you crawling, barely pulling up, riding in the wrap, the chubby-legged days when you could fit in our laps. But then I look at the person you’re becoming and I think time knows exactly what it’s doing. Because I love watching you become.

You don’t realize this now, but this was a really tough year for us. We thought you were going to be a big sister this Spring. Watching you carry your doll and feed her a bottle, and rock her in the nursery, my heart aches knowing how much you would have loved your little brother. But I can tell you, on the hardest days of me and your dad’s life, playing and being with you and your sister was exactly what we needed. You healed and softened some of the sharpest pains. Your funny games and silly tricks and bedtime stories are what made our days fill back with light when they felt a bit foggy. You are what reminded us every single day how full our hearts are, how much love there is in our home.  One day, you’ll know how much that meant.

It’s hard to believe two years ago, we didn’t know who you’d be. We didn’t know your toothy, twinkly pirate-eyed smile, how goofy, active, hungry, picky and loving you are. You were just 5 pounds 14 ounces of newborn-smelling, fussy, love.  I remember one night vividly at the hospital when you were one day old; you had fluid in your belly from the birth that caused some issues. I woke up as I heard you started breathing differently – fast and uneven and scary, at least to me. I picked you up, unswaddling you while you sputtered and I tried not to panic. I put you skin to skin, hoping that would help, wrapping that striped hospital blanket over your tiny back. It might have been a few seconds, but it felt like longer, you started to breathe right again. In and out, steady until you fell back asleep, nestled on me.  The relief and love I felt in that moment was huge. I still remember it so clearly.

I think of that night because sometimes, I feel like you and Adalyn somehow do the same for us: you settle us. I want you to know that despite the chaos parenthood brings, there is nothing more calming to the soul than being your mom. When things are just off or don’t go right, at the end of the day when we read to you two…we breathe right again, in and out, steady until you and your sister fall asleep, sprawled across the bed, gangly limbs, button nose and fly-away hair. And life feels pretty darn good.

I want you to know that you are happiness; you are laughter; you are light; you are so full of life.  Every day, every single day, I am so thankful for you and the joy you bring. We love you Bria Elizabeth-Rose.

Love,

Mama