December 31, 2012 @ 11:46pm .

My dearest little dear,



It's New Year's Eve and you are sweetly sleeping upstairs in your
 crib. In two days, you will be nine months old. Mama and Papa are 
sipping port at the dining table and delighting upon inventing the
 traditions that we hope will later scaffold a beautiful family life.
We hung snowflakes of tissue paper and aluminum foil so you could wake 
to a wintry wonderland. We drafted our dreams and bore witness to each 
other's and archived it all in a box to uncover next year. And now we
 are writing you these letters.



This is the kind of mother I intended to be from the start, but I got 
a little lost along the way. I've come to understand, though, that my 
postpartum depression and anxiety were all part of the journey. I 
couldn't be the mother, the wife, the woman I am becoming in slow,
 steady strokes without that chapter. My comfort is that none of it 
seems to have affected you. You are the happiest little guy, so ready 
to be delighted at almost every turn. Fiery, for sure, yes, but that's 
because every single atom of you is made of bright ember.



How lucky I am to be your mother. How lucky are we to be chosen to
 accompany you in this life.



So, little man, almost NINE MONTHS. And it feels like every day it's 
something new. You can crawl very fast now (you went from not crawling
 to crawling at the speed of light in a matter of three days, I think). 
You can pull yourself up on furniture with ease, cruise along, even
 squat down to pick up a toy and stand again without missing a beat.
 You wave at yourself in the mirror and delight in saying "UP!" over
 and again. You love to feed yourself--bits of carrot, peas, corn off
 the cob, cheerios, puffs, pieces of fruit, whatever you can maneuver
 into your mouth on your own. You're less interested now in the purees 
and mushy food that require you to sit patiently, waiting for a spoon
 held in someone else's hand. I admire this. You babble mamas and babas
 and wawas and UP! You blow raspberries and scrunch your face while
 snorting air through your nose. Sometimes you'll even give kisses--and
 what kisses they are: your mouth widens into a shiny O and you close 
it around my nose or chin or entire mouth and hold it there, gently, 
purposefully, patiently, indulgently--OK, mama, I'll give you a kiss.



I love your face when you've mastered a new challenge. You are
 surprised and delighted and cocky, all at once. I've never been so
 certain of the link between us and the chimps. It's extremely 
charming, little boy. 



Also I love the way you're coming to understand how to love Nahe. Oh,
 you've adored her from the start--never startled at her loud barking,
 never ever showed fear, not even when you were but days old and pretty 
helpless, and there she was lolling in your personal space, SO CURIOUS
 about you. You had such trust in us and in her and in the ability of
 things to go right instead of wrong (how I admire this too). But you 
are learning to be gentle with her, to calm your touch near her, but
 also to play with her, to share loud raucous joy with her. You, 
indeed, are puppies of the same litter, my loves.

 

All this, so much **living** crammed into the last nine months. It 
simultaneously makes me impatient for and loathe to rush all that 
comes next.



But I welcome it all, I do, because it'll be with you, my dear, my
 son, my little pal. Mama and boy-o.



Looking forward to delighting in life with you.



Your Mama



@12:16am