First Birthday Letter
Monday, April 18, 2005
Happy birthday, my charming little monkey!
This letter comes a few days late, but I’m sure you understand since you too are still recovering from the Stomach Bug That Ate Your Birthday Weekend. Somehow you managed to get sick for two rounds, and we all spent most of the past few days unconscious on couches, whimpering, and jockeying for bathroom time. You picked up a new nickname: The baby formerly known as Cutie Bug is now known as Death Bug 4000.
If all the upset stomachs weren’t enough, the dog ate your birthday cake. Even worse, no one noticed for about a day.
On the bright side, you have had a few big things to celebrate over the past week — some fun time with your family in New Hampshire and Massachusetts, your first steps on your own, and your first high-fives. (I can tell you’re feeling better because you smiled and prompted me for a high-five when you went to bed tonight.)
I didn’t really get a chance to talk with you on your birthday, what with all the sickness and sleeping, but this is what I wanted to say. I'm not telling you anything new here — I talk to you all day long, so much so that several times a day you bounce and flap your arms and mock me: "Blah blah buh blah CHIRP!" Assuming I've been making as much sense to you as you've been making to me, I thought I'd summarize our recent conversations in writing so you can reminisce later, like when you're in therapy.
Usually I'm telling you that I love you, that I'm having so much fun playing with you, or that I wish you'd get a grip and hold on just 30 more seconds so I can cut your tofu into cubes.
Sometimes I coax you to play and do tricks, and sometimes you oblige:
"Can I have a kiss, please?" (I pucker, and you bat your eyelashes, lean in, and open your mouth wide for a slobber. Then you giggle.)
"I'm going to get you!" (I wink, and you scrabble away on all fours ... and then pause to make sure I catch you. Then we both laugh.)
"Where's Calvin?" (I look bewildered, and you lean in sideways, grinning your most mischievous grin, and I feign surprise. Then you shake with laughter, and so do I.)
You play with Daddy a lot too: When he gets home from work, you turn into tigers on the prowl, roaring as you grab Mommy in the kitchen. (Little do you know that the tofu-cubing goes much faster when she isn't besieged by tigers.)
I don't know how babies decide what's funny, but your sense of humor delights us. You love to start a game of peek-a-boo, to bounce, to chase the cat. And you have a wonderful laugh, the kind that rumbles out of your belly and quickly renders you helpless and teary-eyed.
But you're a tough boss — and you most certainly are the boss. You don't cut me any slack. A little tired? Too bad, lady, I want to gogogogogo! Got a headache? Too bad, we have maracas we need to play. Had enough peek-a-boo? We're just getting started! Not to suck up to the boss or anything, but I know you're really just trying to bring out the best in me. You challenge me every day, to be more patient, more energetic, more open to magic. (So, uh, could I get a raise? Or at least some extra vacation time?)
It's no secret: A year ago, I wasn't sure what I had gotten myself into. Sure, you were cute, but you cried a lot. You hated all the things babies are supposed to like: cuddles, being carried in a sling, the bouncy chair, the swing... You spit up so much you spent the first few months sleeping upright in your car seat, parked by our bed. At least you were adorable (except for that episode of acne we won't talk about until we meet your prom date).
You first smiled at us when you were five weeks and one day old, shortly after 9 a.m. That was a Big Deal: Finally there was a sign that all that love and hope and anxiety I was pouring over you really might be more appreciated than it would be by, say, the cat. Finally there was a sign that you were happy, and not silently wishing you hadn't been stuck with such dorky parents.
And you've been happy ever since. (Almost.)
When people marvel at how easygoing you are, how you've slept 12-hour nights since you were 3 months old, how eagerly you embrace new people, I never know quite what to say. It's a compliment, but I can't say thank you — it's all you, baby. I just feel lucky to know you.
So how do you spend your days? Don't hold it against us, but you might be the only middle-class baby in Silicon Valley who isn't enrolled in Gymboree or some other enrichment class for the diaper-clad set. There will be enough of that stuff later. You have lots of playtime with other babies — well, now you're all becoming toddlers — just about your age. I have my eye on a few who I think might be good friends for you, but I promise to let you decide. We're lucky to live near a bunch of parks, where you enjoy the swings and climbing on the play gyms and eating sand (please stop that). You especially love it when older children take an interest in you. You go out to eat a lot: Every Thursday we meet some of your playmates and their parents, or we have pancakes with my friends from work. We also go out with Daddy and family friends — you really seem to like Indian and Thai food, which is fortunate given the restaurant selection downtown.
You love musical toys. Your piano was an early favorite, and still gets heavy use. You toot on a recorder and gleefully wave your tambourine and maraca. You love to be tossed and bounced high in the air, flipped upside down, flown around the room and buzzed over the cat... And you like to bang things on your forehead. You'll just sit there, grinning, whacking the remote on your head. That makes me worry a bit. And you play rhino, head-butting your parents, your little friends — and yourself in the mirror. I'm chalking it up as a boy thing.
You make noise constantly: You talk to yourself, you chatter to us, you sing. Last week, you started holding a note while riding in shopping carts or in the car on bumpy roads — you like hearing your voice vibrate. You're also showing new interest in walking. You haven't had much need for walking, because you've gotten around quite handily while holding on to furniture or my legs. But in the past few days, you've started grabbing our hands and leading us around, exclaiming "go go go!" And Daddy swears you're thinking about taking steps. Whenever you're ready, sweetie.
We've heard a few words in all that excited babble: boob, duck, ball, balloon, and of course Mama and Dada. Again, take your time, there's no hurry — but it's a thrilling time for us. As you conquer each milestone, Daddy and I are so happy to see you expand, to take charge of yourself and your world. We aren't particularly eager to fill in more "firsts" in the baby book: We just want you to discover what you're capable of.
A lot of people seem to believe — or at least fervently hope — that if they follow the right formula their child will grow up to be a charming, athletic genius who eventually will place them in a high-quality old-age home and visit often. We're trying a different tack. Sure, we want you to be bright, friendly and in good health (and do please visit often, with the grandkids). And if you help cure cancer or participate in democratically ending the conservative Republican reign, we'd be mighty proud. But our powers are limited. More than anything else, I hope to teach you empathy and compassion, and that you prove to be a good friend. The rest will work itself out.
Some say you're such a "good" baby for sleeping so well at night. But I like to think of that 12-hour snooze as a good sign that your days are fulfilling, and your spirit is at peace. What more could we wish for?
Lots of love,
Mommy
