Happy birthday, sweet girl!

Sometimes I try to imagine the you that you will be when you read these letters.  Will you be twelve, knowing everything and roll your eyes at my emotion? Will you be seventeen and try to use my loving words here to convince me to buy you a car? Or will you be starting your own family and will you finally understand your mother just a little bit better? 

I think about what you might want to hear. I think about what I might say to you. What secret messages I can send to you ten, fifteen or thirty years from now. 

And then I decide to do what I do here every day and just try to capture the moment. 

To try to describe your smile, the way you kiss your brother while squeezing his face just a little too tight and your tiny little waist and long legs. 

I want you to know that the way you run down the hallway when you hear your daddy – feet pounding the floor, arms flailing, million-watt grin on your face and high-pitched squeals yelling “DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY” – lights up his day.  And the way sometimes, just once in a while, the way you curl up with me or cuddle up against me with your head on my shoulder, lights up mine. 

I want to try to freeze this moment in time, where you’re talking a mile a minute but still in toddler talk and mostly in the third person.  Where you love your brother, begrudgingly give him some of your toys to play with and always plant a kiss goodnight on his cheek.  Where you love to sing and dance and clap your hands not caring who, or if anyone, is watching.

You’re such a wonderful two-year-old. You are making every age and stage you enter my very favorite as you learn and grow and turn into a tiny little person that we love so very much. 

Happy birthday, baby girl.  We love you to the moon and back. 

Dear Chessa,

This is the last time I can (without appearing as an over-protective, doesn’t-want-her-child-to-grow-up mother) celebrate your birth on the 30^th of a month that’s not September. Also, it means when people ask how old you are I have to start using years instead of months. 

Because one month from today you will be two years old.

And every single day you look a little bit more like a little kid and a little bit less like a baby. 

Both the physical changes and the emotional changes are subtle.  Mixed in with the legs that are getting longer and learning to jump are the longer conversations we have at dinner and your ability to remember absolutely everything.  Your hair reaches into ponytails and pigtails while you negotiate with me with over what you want to wear. (Apparently shirts that sport your daddy’s football team logo are only to be worn to football games and practice, silly me.) Your steps are fast and furious as you pull my arm out the door, excited to go to daycare. 

You’re learning so many new things. New songs. New friends. New ways to get what you want.

Your long eyelashes shadow your eyes as you look up at me and ask for M&Ms.  When I tell you that M&Ms are only for when you use the potty, you blink a time or two and then try again…

“M&Ms, PWEEEAAASEE?  Okay! OK!OK!OK!OK!OK!”

(I guess it’s not surprising that M&Ms as a reward for using the potty isn’t working out so well.)

And since he’s been around for almost six months, I think you’ve found your groove at this big sister thing.  You know exactly how to make my heart burst by giving your brother a kiss for no explainable reason. You know how to stay justonthisside of trouble by stealing whatever toy he has in his hand and then quickly replacing it with a toy of your choice when you see my cocked chin and raised eyebrow.  And you know how to make me wish there were two of me when I’m feeding him and that is the exact moment you need to be read to, rocked or kissed. 

When I take you to football practice to visit your daddy, after hugs and kisses hello, he looks at you and asks, “Forever and ever, Chessa?”

“F’EWHEH and EWHAH” you say back. 

“That’s right. You’re daddy’s baby girl forever and ever.” 

Maybe you’ll outgrow footie pajamas and maybe someday we’ll move into clothing with single digits and  “T” instead of months.  Maybe you’ll learn the words to the songs you sing and stop skipping the numbers 4 and 5 when you count to ten. Maybe someday you’ll be allowed to drink something other than water from a cup without a lid. 

But you’re destined to be our baby girl, forever and ever. 

We love you, sweet girl.

Dear Chessa and Cole,

For the first time in eight weeks (Cole for the first time in your life) I left you all day long.  From 7:45 in the morning until 5:15 this afternoon, I turned your care and well being over to your Nauni and I went to work.  It was crushing for me.  There were tears in my eyes as I walked out the door, eternally grateful that when you, Chessa, started to protest about Daddy and I leaving at the same time, it was your father who stayed behind for a few minutes.  I think if I had seen you cry as I closed the door, I would have bolted back inside and back into my sweat pants.

The eight weeks I spent with both of you together was nothing short of wonderful. It was hard at times and exhausting every single day.  And there were some days I wanted nothing more than a hot cup of tea and mindless time in front of the television.  But being with you, getting to know you better, having more time for cuddling in our pjs, eating cookies and making wonderful memories out of ordinary moments was a gift that I will always remember.

For better or worse, I am a working momma.  You’ll hear me say many times in your life that I work to keep a roof over our heads, Pampers on your bottoms and food on the table.  And I do.  But I also hope that you’ll appreciate and understand that I work for more than that.  I work because I like it. I work because I’m good at it.  I work because I think it’s good for me.

And I think it’s good for you too.   Because if I feel like I am at my best as a person, I can be the best momma to the both of you.  I also happen to think that it’s good for you to spend time with people other than me all the time.  Like your grandparents, your father, the occasional friend of the family and eventually, a daycare or preschool.

Chessa, I hope that you will see me as a woman who works damn hard to get what she wants.  Someone who doesn’t take no for an answer very easily and someone who works best under pressure.  Someone who doesn’t let being a woman stop her from wanting, trying and succeeding.  Someone who has learned to hold her own in a boardroom.  Someone who doesn’t feel guilty about a new pair of shoes or spending a little too much on cute outfits for her babies because she worked to earn every penny she paid for them.  And I hope that you understand that you can do that too.   Whether you choose to or not is completely up to you.  But I want you to know that you can.  Your options are endless.

I know that the three or four hours I get with you each day are not enough.  I won’t kiss every boo-boo, feed you every meal, laugh at every silly thing you do or wipe away every tear.  But, I promise I will be at every baseball game you play and every recital in which you sing.  When you’re sick I will stay home and cuddle with you on the couch.  Chessa, I will let your daddy interrogate your first boyfriend and Cole, I will side eye the first girl that wins your heart.  When you have a bad day, I will blow off my meetings and bring you ice cream.

When you need me, I will be there for you.

When I’m not with you, I’m thinking of you.

Your pictures cover my walls.  Your faces smile back at me.  They calm me when the frustration of the job peaks.  They make my eyes fill with tears when I’m missing you a little too much.  They remind me of what it is that really matters.

You.  Both of you.

And doing the best that I can for you by spending forty hours a week in an office.

Dear C,

Next week, you will be 17 months old and some time in the next 10 days, your life is going to change dramatically.  I don’t know how to prepare you for it. I worry about how you will adjust and what your little mind will think when we bring your little brother or sister home.  I worry about you needing me and me not being able to be enough for both of you. 

Make no mistake, I have no doubt that there is enough love in my heart for both of my children and your daddy, I just worry that my lap won’t be big enough, my arms long enough, my patience strong enough or my energy high enough to keep up with the two of you. 

I want you to know how special you are to me and how special you will always be.  Because of you, I changed.  Because of you, I loved your daddy differently.  Because of you, I understood your grandparents better.  Because of you, I learned to let old hurts slip away.  Because of you, I learned when to say no to other people and when to take a breath and adjust my priorities.  Because of you, I learned when to hold tight and when to let go. 

You are such a fireball of energy these days.  You chatter from the minute you wake up until the minute you go to bed.  Talking to us about Elmo and books and where you want to go, what you want to eat, what you want to do.  Even when you can’t find the words, you find a way to tell us what you want.  Whether it’s by pulling us up by the shoulder or just trying to do it yourself, you make sure that we understand you.  And, usually, you get what you want.  I guess we’re going to have to start working on that before people start using the “spoiled” word. 

You’re such a Daddy’s girl and right now, I’m grateful for that. I’m hopeful that your bond with your daddy will help you not notice that for a little bit I’m not able to pick you up, carry you around and do some of the things that I usually do.  Because if you do notice and if it hurts you, there’s a good chance that I’ll do it anyway and then get yelled at by doctors. 

I hope that you fall in love with your brother or sister instantly, but I will understand if you don’t.  I’ll understand if you’re indifferent or even a little pissed at first.  But eventually, sweet girl, it’s my greatest hope that the two of you will be great friends.  I hope that you will teach him or her all your nifty little tricks.  I hope that you will play together and entertain each other as you get older.  I hope you will share clothes and friends and fight over the car and who is going to sit up front.  I hope you sneak into each other’s rooms after I put you to bed and giggle together because you think that I don’t know what you’re up to.  I hope you hold each other’s secrets, but always keep the other’s best interest in mind. 

Big changes are coming, my love. For all of us. But they are good changes.  We will have another person to love and to love us back. We will have another person to laugh with, play with and cuddle with in our bed on weekend mornings.  We’ve been on a bit of an adventure with you ever since September of 2009 and that adventure is only going to get more interesting. 

I love you so much, 

Momma

Dear Baby,

I can’t believe in less than two months we will get to stare into your sweet little face.  Some days it seems like only yesterday that we found out you would be joining our family and other days it seems like you’ve been a very real part of me forever.   I know your movements now. I know what parts of the day to expect you to be active and bouncing around inside me and I know when to expect your strong kicks to lighten and become soft pushes instead. 

When your sister was born someone told me that when you had your first baby, you became parents; but when you had your second you became a family.  I scoffed at the time, thinking that Daddy, C and I were already a family and we were, I suppose.  But adding you to the mix changes everything.  Instead of picturing a child playing at my feet, I picture the two of you running across the yard.  In my mind, I see your daddy pushing your big sister on the swing set, while you sit propped on my hip watching and laughing.  I imagine the two of you playing in the bathtub, whispering by flashlight under blankets that become makeshift tents in the basement, fighting over toys and sneaking into each other’s bedrooms after I’ve put you to bed.   I imagine holidays with you both perched at the kitchen counter watching me cook and trying to sneak bites of stuffing or dipping your finger in cream cheese icing.  And then it hits me, this is what I think of when I think of family.  And with you, we will have just that. 

I don’t know if you’ll have my eyes or Daddy’s nose.  I don’t know if you’ll be athletic like your father or find comfort in words like me.  Maybe you’ll be graceful and poised like your aunt or maybe you’ll be a farm boy who will beg to spend the summers with your grandparents so you can go to the farm and visit the animals.  There is so much that we will learn about you and that you will teach us as you grow. 

But at the same time, there is so much that I want for you.  I want you to always know how much you are loved. I want you to be strong and determined like your daddy.  I want you to be empathetic and understanding like me.  I want you to learn to fight for what you want, but accept a loss with grace.  I want you to charm the pants off of everyone you meet, but I want you to decide who you trust.  I want you to protect your heart but know when it’s time to share it with someone.  I want you to have faith in things you cannot understand.  I want you to read, to learn, to discover.  I want you to let your imagination run wild and with it your hopes and your dreams and your ambition. 

And if you remember nothing else, remember this:  I don’t want you to ever, ever settle.  Reach for the moon, my sweet baby. 

We love you.

Dear C,

There are so many things I want you to know about your first few years.  Things you’ll read in your baby book or stories you’ll hear over and over from your daddy and I or your grandparents. Things like when you took your first steps or when you said your first words.  Memories of your first Christmas, your first trip to the beach and the first time you fell and my heart broke into a million pieces.  But tonight, I think about the little things that are taking place around you every day.  Things that you won’t remember because you’re too little and things that I might forget once you’re onto the next stage of your life. 

Here are some of those things. 

• The best time of my day is at your bedtime, when I read to you and you lay your head back on my shoulder.  It only lasts a brief moment.  Long enough perhaps for me to stroke your hair or lean into you, breathe the scent of your lavendar lotion and kiss your forehead.  But I love it. 
• During football season it’s not always possible for your daddy to be here at bath and bedtime, because you still go to bed pretty early.  But on those nights when he gets home, no matter how late it is or how tired he is, he sneaks into your room, whispers his “I love you”s and kisses you while you sleep. 
• Making you giggle and squeal with happiness is one of my greatest joys every day.  Whether it’s from tickling, chasing you or saying something funny, when your eyes crunch up and you explode with a belly laugh, I feel my heart explode from happiness.  But.  Being just outside the room when you bless your daddy, your grandparents or anyone else with those giggles, is one of my proudest moments as your momma. 
• Last week I taught you how to dunk your Oreo cookies in milk.  You are welcome.

Dear C,

Tonight, only moments after I put you to bed, I sit with my computer and think about what I want to say to you tomorrow on your first birthday.  And it seems I am at a loss for words.  In my mind I have fleeting memories of our last year together and glimpses into what the future may hold. 

I see you brand new, squishy and warm, looking up at me with big, open and expectant eyes.  I hear the cries of a newborn so insistent and heartbreaking.  And I remember being the mother who didn’t think she would ever understand your cues or know the difference between your cries. 

I see you starting to discover the world around you.  Sitting silently just looking around all intent and serious.  Learning our faces and our voices, taking in the sights of our home and discovering new things by touch, taste, sight and sound.  I remember wanting to freeze time and thinking that these moments, the one where you recognized me for the first time or the one where you smiled at your daddy, these were the moments that parents lived for. 

I see you learning to stand and taking your first few steps.  The look on your face was a beautiful combination of determination and surprise.  I recall holding out my arms to you, ready to catch you if you fell and so proud of the steps you were taking but sad at the same time.  For this was the moment I saw your babyhood slipping from my fingertips. 

“She looks different today,” I said to your daddy this morning.  With a curious face he turned his head to look at me.  “What?” 

“I don’t know,” I said.  “Older, less like a baby.”

Maybe it’s because you were wearing jeans.  Or maybe it’s because I knew your birthday was almost upon us. Or maybe it’s because I know this next year is going to bring some very big changes to your world. 

In your future, I see you as a determined, spunky little girl.  I see your little steps grow into bigger steps and your steps grow into leaps as you move through the days, months and years ahead of us.  I see you taking on the world, questioning everything and bringing joy to everyone who loves you.  

I can’t believe this last year is over, Sweet Girl.  Daddy and I have loved every day that we’ve been your parents.  You are such a blessing to us and we love you. 

Always dream big, Sweetheart.

Dear C,

11 months old.  One month shy of a year since we met you and became proud parents of a beautiful little girl.  While we have been proud of you since you were minutes old and wrapping your hand around Daddy’s finger and our hearts around your pinkie, it has only been in the last few weeks that I’ve felt like I could bust with joy when you accomplish something new. 

Like walking. 

And talking. 

And feeding yourself. 

And crawling up the steps.  (Actually, I don’t like this one so much.  Let’s stop doing it.)

You’re such an independent little soul.  You want to do things yourself, are constantly on the move and you never, ever sit still.  I guess this is pretty typical behavior for a baby of your age, but it’s still one of the most amazing things to your daddy and me. 

As you toddle across the room, your arms out to keep you steady, we look at each other and grin.  Each silently counting your footsteps.  One. Two. Three.  We make eye contact and our smiles get a little bigger.  Four. Five. Six.  Sometimes you stop to see if we’re looking at you and we hold our breath.  And then you toddle some more.  Off to get whatever has caught your eye.  Sometimes you make it all the way.  Other times you stumble and fall down.  Or, you simply decide you can get there faster by crawling, so you drop to your knees and take off. 

You’ve taken a lot of knocks the past few weeks.  It feels like you’re constantly bumping your head into something, falling down or pulling on something and smacking yourself in the face with it.  When you do and when it hurts, you cry big crocodile tears until someone scoops you up and smothers you with kisses.  We make promises that it will be all better by the time you’re married and show you a different toy and then, like magic, the tears stop and you’re begging to be put down. 

You’re such an inquisitive, happy little girl.  I hope you always find joy in the little things like sitting on the table, playing with a cap from one of your bottles or putting leaves in a plastic cup. 

I love you, sweet child.

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

Dear Baby Girl,

Nine months old today.  Nine months.  Some days it is so hard to imagine my life before you were a part of it and other days it feels like I just brought you home from the hospital yesterday. 

Before you came along, things were mighty different around our house.  I had my job, Daddy had his.  We’d chat about our days once they were over; sometimes over dinner, sometimes as we laid our heads down on the pillow.  I would take quick shopping trips in the evening or swing through happy hour. Daddy would stay at the school until the very last kid had left the weight room. 

Now?  Oh, sweet baby.  Now, we both rush home to see you.  To soak up the few short hours we have with you before you go to bed.  To make funny faces at you, to be silly, to read books.  To watch you pull yourself up on the furniture, both scared that you’ll fall and scared that in a few weeks or months you’ll be walking.  To blow raspberries on your belly, whisper in your ear and teach you to clap.  Where once it seemed like I had all the time in the world, there are now not enough hours in the evenings.

I don’t know why this time has to go so fast.  I don’t know who decided that a mother could blink and her squishy newborn would be a mobile baby.  Your clothes get packed away before you have a chance to wear many of them.  You play with toys a time or two before you’re bored with them.  And, just last week, we lowered your crib mattress.  Which made me cry and your daddy nervous.  (Turns out he was right, because two days later we say you on the monitor reaching for your nightlight.  I’ve never seen him run up the stairs so fast.) 

These moments we get with you in the evenings and the little bit of time we see you in the morning are not enough.  Time is moving too fast.  You are changing at the speed of light.  Inquisitive and curious about everything, you don’t slow down as you discover your world. 

And you are the center of our universe.  You are the person who made us a family and gives both of us something to rush home to. 

I love you, sweet baby.