Happy FWEE!, beautiful boy

Dear Sweet Little Stinkpot,

Three years ago at this time, I was asleep and dreaming I was in labor. In my dreaming life, my baby emerged with big brown eyes and hair that lay in slick black curls. In my waking life, twelve hours to the minute later, you were born looking exactly as I dreamed. I even gasped when I got my first glimpse of you because I recognized you from the dream that woke me up just before my water broke all over the bedroom floor.

And you might cringe one day to read that, but the slight delay that followed me saying, "Honey, wake up. My water's breaking." followed by the beginning of it all then your daddy's frantic look as he processed it all, jumped out of bed and pulled out stacks of towels he'd stashed all over the apartment. And any feelings of embarrassment will melt into laughter to picture him nervously picking out CDs to soothe my nerves in the delivery room and throw things into an overnight bag that he'd never use.

When I look at you, I sometimes wonder what it was like when you were so fresh and new. It seems like you've always been talking, and mostly, you have. It seems like you've always had that wide, dimply grin, and mostly, you have. It seems like you've always had those soulful brown eyes and crazy hair, and of course, you have.

It seems like you've always been telling me to pretend to be you and Daddy to be Grandpa Bob and you will be Daddy.

It seems like you've always wondered what your buddies Sammy and Sam and Emma are doing right now, and that you've always said things like, "Its a perfect day for golf!  and "When we go to Starbucks, you can enjoy a nice hot cup of coffee and I will enjoy a cookie treat. Right, mommy?" and "That's interesting!" and "No
sanks! I would prefer not to go to daycare today! I sink I will stay
home and watch Super Readers while you work the buuuhhlog." But these things are all new this year.



You've started trying very hard to pedal your little bike and done very
well at understanding the importance of helmets and the joy of steering
the handlebars while at a cycling standstill. You learned about Oreos
and giggle while you politely ask servers at restaurants for a cup of coffee, please.
You've started daycare and spent four days at Camp Grandma and Grandpa,
deliriously happy to catch bugs and ride in the kayak. You started
playing cards and making jokes and in you, I can see the flicker of
understanding about big concepts about love and death and babies in
bellies. You call out, "Hey Daddy, we're making jokes in here!" and ask with a serious brow and squinted eyes "Does
everything living die? Will your body stop working one day? Will my
body stop working? Will I go to heaven with Corky and Grampy Ashley?"



All of this is new too. And yet, all of it is still so you. There is
much to come. And there is a lot of keeping up to do. There will be
more worries, little and overwhelming, and there will be many more
daily surprises.



This week when I was exhausted from deadlines and outside pressures I
never want you to feel but inevitable tiptoes into our home, I lowered
you into your crib in your dark bedroom. You were enveloped by stuffed
animals and you buried your face into them while I pulled the blankets
up and over you.



"Goodnight, baby. I love you with my whole heart," I said.



"Goodnight, mommy. You too," you said in your small, tired voice. And then, as I walked out the room, turned and said louder, so I could hear, "I love you wiss my whole heart too!"



And as special as that first moment was with you at 4:45 pm on
September 20th three years ago, I realized that I have lived that
flutter, that surge of great love and responsibility and content over
and over and over again.

***

As a gift to myself and to my family, I am celebrating this birthday by taking the next few days off. We all need it. And the fun part is, there's good stuff coming next week and none of it involves exploding jobs or dismantling deadlines. Stay tuned.