One Year

Dear Micah,

One year ago today, we were just coming home with you for the first time. You were a tiny, grey-eyed, red-haired little thing, born four weeks early, and three weeks later than we thought you'd be. It poured down rain during the drive home, and I suddenly realized I'd be spending the rest of my life worried that something would happen to you. I just as quickly realized I'd just have to get over it, or else I'd drive us all insane.

That first month was a blur, the second and third a trial, but sometime in January, you suddenly blossomed into a happy, smiling, cuddly baby. You've been charming everyone around you ever since. We've been through some rough times, especially this summer, but your laugh melts my heart and brings a smile to my face every single time. I don't know that I'll ever be immune to it, but hopefully you'll use that power only for good.

July had a profound effect on me. I never took you for granted, but the miscarriage made me appreciate what a miracle you really, truly are. We are so blessed to have you, and I am totally, completely aware of that every single day. I regret with all my heart that you won't have a sister this winter, but at the same time, it's made me stop and enjoy every moment with you instead of letting time just drift by. I think that's her gift to both of us.

You are endlessly fascinating. Every tiny milestone is a marvel, every small skill mastered is proof, PROOF I SAY, that you are the most amazing person ever, anywhere. I'll qualify that out in public, for politeness, but we all know it's true.

You jabber, shriek, and burble. You howl with laughter when we tickle you, and you growl at your toy lion. You say geegah (kitty cat), mama, dada, bawa (Nala), see. You can bap your little paws together in the sign for more, although for you it really means "food please." You point at things that interest you and rattle off sentences and questions in Martian. You're fascinated by the new mobile that now hangs from the ceiling above your crib. "See? See?" you ask, and you point and laugh when we spin it around for you.

When one of us walks into the room, you scramble towards us as fast as you can, head down, until you run into our legs, then you hold out your arms to be picked up. You're a great snuggler and you give the best hugs. You wave bye-bye and blow kisses. You love to hand things to people, then take them back again.

And good god, child, you eat. You're done with baby food; no, you want the real thing now. Peas, corn, beans, cantaloupe, watermelon, pears, apple, peaches, waffles, muffins, pizza, chicken, pork, barbeque, rolls, steak, fish. You like spicy things – garlic, red pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg. If it wasn't for a reaction to milk, egg, and pineapple, I think you'd eat pretty much anything. Most of the time, you have the same things for dinner we do, and you are insanely neat about it – it's only after you've finished that you'll play with your food. Until then, you're all business.

You love books. You'll sit by yourself or in our laps, turning the pages and talking to them. When there's music on, you dance or clap. You're learning to color with crayons and play with fingerpaints.

Lately, you're a little unsure of strangers. Not at the doctor's office the other day when you were holding court from your carseat, and not at lunch yesterday, when you were talking to and waving at the woman seated next to us. But occasionally, when there's a crowd, you have to snuggle up to me, put your head on my shoulder, and take a break. It's a little embarrassing at time, but also kind of gratifying.

I treasure our time alone together, at night before bed and when you wake up in the morning. I sit in our chair and hold you against me, and I want time to slow down, to stop, just so I can have this a little longer. Soon you'll be too big to hold, too busy, too interested in other things, so for now, I sit back and kiss the chubby little hand locked on the front of my shirt, and enjoy the moment there in the dark.

This has been the most amazing, difficult, frustrating, heart-expanding, humbling, incredible, beautiful year of my life. Every day, I don't know how I could love you more, and every single day, I do.

If nothing else, I want you to know that you are loved. I don't ever want us to grow out of telling you, I don't ever want you to forget or question. I have no idea what lies ahead for any of us, but no matter what, don't ever doubt that one fact. We love you, with an intensity that takes our breath away, that makes us turn to each other in awe, marveling at how much a heart can grow and stretch. It's almost terrifying sometimes, the way you've wound around our souls, and we wouldn't change a thing.

Happy birthday, baby boy.

Love,
Mommy