Dear Baby Girl,

Soon I am going to have to start these letters with “Dear Little Girl” because you, my sweet thing?  You are leaving babyhood in the dust.  Every day you look and act more and more like a little kid and while sometimes, my heart swells so hard and so fast with pride for all of things you accomplish, other times it shatters into a hundred pieces as I think about how fast the last ten months have gone. 

When you crawl to the den time after time again, pull yourself up to the rocking chair and look back over your shoulder silently asking me to do my part, to lift you up and sit you in the chair so you can rock like a big girl, I think about the early days of your life when I would rock you to sleep in that very chair. 

When you stand up and suddenly let go, your chubby little legs shaking as you realize you’re no longer holding on, I think about the newborn who smiled sweetly but needed me to support her head when I handed you off to your daddy. 

When you wave bye-bye and blow kisses as I leave for work in the mornings and peek at me from around the corner of the chair when I come home, I think about how grateful I am for your sweet, smiling face.  How you make having a bad day impossible, because no matter what happens between 8am and 5pm, I get to come home to you. 

When I lay you down to sleep at night, and you sigh contentedly, roll over onto your belly and drift off, I pray that your sleep will always be this peaceful and sweet.  That you will always feel comforted and safe.  That you will always have people around you who love you.  And that you will always know where home is. 

And as I lay my head on my pillow a few hours later, I think about the sweet girl in the next room who gives my heart such joy, who gives our family such laughter and who gives my life such meaning. 

I don’t care how big you get, how many steps you take or how many milestones you leave in the dust, you will always be my baby girl and I will always love you the same way I love you today. 

Happy 10 months, peanut. 

Love,

Momma

A few months ago when I started sharing the ins and outs and ups and downs of my mommyhood with the world, I found myself consumed by it.  Captivated.  Curious.  Hooked.

I needed to be “connected” all. the. time.  I was constantly checking Twitter on my phone, subscribing to blog after blog in my Google Reader and freaking out when I logged in and found 237 unread posts.  The second I laid C down to sleep, I would hurry to open up the laptop and tap out a post or comment on my favorite blogs. 

A few months later, I find myself rocking her a little longer, even after she’s fallen asleep.  Or I open the computer and stare at the “add new post” screen, unsure about what to write.  Maybe I share a few not-so-witty, borderline whiny tweets and check in with a few e-friends.  But I don’t feel as tied to blogging as I did a while back. 

Is it because it’s not what I thought it would be?  My posts aren’t earth shattering. I don’t touch hot topics with a ten-foot pole. And I don’t know where I want this site to go. 

Is it because way too often Twitter gives me the big fat fail whale and I just don’t have the patience for it? 

Is it because I see C’s babyhood slipping away and I want to take every moment to soak it in?  Not write or talk about it?

Is it because things like work, busy weekends, the start of football season and not feeling well have my head in a place where, by the end of the day, I don’t want to do anything other than curl up with a soft blanket and Reba reruns on Lifetime? 

I’m being a little bit melodramatic.  I’m not going anywhere.  I blogged before anyone read what I wrote and honestly, my mom likes seeing new pictures of her granddaughter.  I just noticed this change tonight, when again C feel asleep as I was feeding her (does anyone else think she needs an earlier bedtime?) and instead of rushing to jump online, I rocked, stroked her hair, ran my finger along her cheek and just stared at her peaceful and content face. 

It’s also a little bit of an explanation for the lack of commenting (so sorry!) and the over abundance of posts that mostly just cute pictures or silly stories.  Maybe someday, I’ll try to stretch my wings a little more, be a little more engaged, a little less whiny.  But for now, this is where I’m at. 

Pity party.  Table for one.

There’s a new game around our house. One that gives me bruised knees and sore palms, but also squeals of delight followed by belly laughs from the little one. 

She crawls away from me and looks back over her shoulder.  On my hands and knees, I chase her. 

“I’m gonna get you.” 

Her eyes gleam and she takes off again. 

But this time I wait and hide behind the couch, the door, the wall. 

A few steps later, I hear the tap-tap-tap of her crawling stop as she wonders where I am.  She sighs.  And, turns around.  Crawling back to where she came from.

When she gets close to me.  I say, “PEEK!” and she gasps and squeals. 

She crawls to me for a hug and a kiss.  Sometimes sitting in my lap long enough for Patty Cake or Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes.  Then she pushes off and crawls away again.   With another mischievous look and a grin.

And we do it again. And again.

Most nights I put her to bed awake following her bottle and a book.  But once in a while, she drifts off while finishing her bottle and on those nights it’s hard for me to put her to bed right away. 

Like last night.  Her eyes were closing as I was humming songs I learned at church camp 15 years ago.  I remembered the peaceful feeling of sitting around a warm fire with church members, friends and complete strangers.  Toasting marshmallows, swaying from side to side and wrapping ourselves in sweatshirts and blankets.  Summers are hot around here, but the nights?  The nights are cool. 

I remembered Dave on his guitar and Jeannie who would call out the next verse or next song.  People I haven’t thought about in years.  But I remember it being so quiet, so calm and so safe. 

Just like the baby girl in my arms who takes a deep breath and turns her body into the crook of my arm.  Her eyes are still behind closed lids, her long lashes resting on her cheek. 

I stare at her face and think that sometimes she still looks so much like the newborn I brought home from the hospital almost 10 months ago.  And then I see a bruise that’s almost faded and am reminded that she’s nothing like that newborn baby. 

The lump forms in my throat and tears sting my eyes.  These last ten months.  They have gone so fast.  In another nine or ten months I probably won’t be rocking her much. 

She sighs again and starts to shift and stretch.  She’s ready to fall deeper into sleep but she wants her bed.  She wants to get comfortable. 

I lean over, press my lips to her forehead and carefully stand up.  As I lower her to the mattress, I whisper the same thing as the night before. 

“I love you, baby girl.  You sleep so tight.  Mommy will see you in the morning.”

People!  You’re in luck.  Today, you get to read a post by Tiffany from Mom-Nom.com.  Let me give you some background on Ms. Tiffany, just on the off chance that you’re not one of her regular readers.  She’s a pretty, happy, funny and deterimined momma to two of the most photogenic kids I’ve ever seen, Bubs and Bubette.  Just over a year ago, Bubs was involved in a terrible golf cart accident.  You can read about the details on her blog.  But, before you read her post below, you should really go read the post that she wrote on the anniversary of Bubs’ accident.  It’s powerful and inspiring. 

So is Tiffany. 

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I’ve never talked about it…to anyone but a therapist. And, I have never said anything on my own blog about it. But personally, I think a blog that allows you to declare you are “Not Mommy of the Year” is the place to do it, right?
 
I carry a lot of guilt, dating back to July 19, 2009.
 
You see, I allowed my son – my first born & my pride & joy, ride and sometimes even drive a golf cart. That cart – it almost took his life.

 I’ll pause here and let that sink in for a moment…

I knowingly allowed my son to operate and ride in a motorized vehicle that was not a) safe b) age appropriate or c) SAFE. What kind of mom does that?
 
Our children rely on us for many things. But one of the key things they rely on us for is safety. And, if they can’t rely on us, who can they rely on?  

What kind of mother looks the other way as grandpa and son drive by (at a speed that is slightly faster than I would prefer for myself) in a golf cart, of all things.
 
And, this wasn’t your average golf cart. It was as suped up machine, with larger than normal wheels and a tow package. And my son, he isn’t just a normal son. He’s MY son.
 
I have cried a thousand tears. And made a thousand promises. And worried years of my life away since July 19. I have spent countless hours lying in bed with him, rubbing his hair and praying softly as he slept.
 
I have prayed for forgiveness. For healing. For peace.

And yet, I still don’t feel like I have paid for my sins. 

I can still remember hearing the helicopter circle overhead and thinking – I could have prevented this.  Let me be the first to tell you – there is nothing more painful to your heart than to think that you could have prevented your own child’s pain. his bloodshed. his near death.

And you didn’t.
 
I failed him.
 
I failed him in my most important duty as a mother. I failed to protect him. 

This is the single most prominent factor holding me back from healing. And I know that. And, it is something I continue to work on.
 
Because,  you see…I carry guilt with me.

I carry it in my heart.
 
And I see it everyday. 
 
 
 
I am NOT Mommy of the Year.

I use this space of the internet to laugh about all the things I do to screw up my kid or fail at this parenting gig.  Like my knack for forgetting to pack bibs and burp cloths, thus prompting me to dig out half used napkins out of the pocket of the front seat, or eating an Oreo when she rolled over for the first time, or turning on cartoons in the morning because the sight of her dancing to the music is what keeps me going throughout the workday. 

But sometimes.  I really screw up. 

It was just about time for dinner Sunday night. Craig was at practice and I headed to the kitchen to make a sandwich so I could eat while I fed the wee one.  C was playing at my heels.  I could hear the tap tap tap as she crawled along the tile floor.  I pulled out a roll and wondered if the tap tap tap sound was moving further away. 

Just as I wondered what she was doing, I heard the splat and I knew. 

As I heard her cry out, I knew she had found the steps again. And this time, without someone watching her she had fallen. 

Down the steps.

Onto the tile. 

I dropped the loaf of bread and sprinted the seven steps that separated me from the the foot of the steps. 

There was my baby girl, in a heap, face down. 

I scooped her up with a prayer that I wouldn’t see blood and that nothing was broken. 

It wasn’t.

A few “ssshhh”s and “it’s okay”s and she was fine.  No new bumps or bruises.  Since the sound was a splat and not the crack of a forehead making contact with the tile, I’m guessing she caught herself on her hands and that she was scared and not hurt. 

But here’s the thing.  I. DON’T. KNOW. 

Because I wasn’t watching.  I took my eyes off of her. Only for a few seconds, but still.  If I had been watching, I would have kept her from falling.  I would have kept her from being hurt. 

At some point this may be one of my funny parenting stories, but today this one still hurts.

PS. I haven’t asked (begged) in a while, but…If it’s not too much to ask, would you please take a second and spare two clicks for me on Top Baby Blogs. XOXO!