Happy 1st Birthday, My First, Second, Fourth

Dear Baby-Racing-to-Turn-into-a-Toddler: "Happy 1st Birthday."

Happy 1st Birthday, My First, Second, Fourth.

I'm beginning this letter to you on your birthday eve, although I imagine I'll be finishing it on your birthday (or sometime later) because I have so much to say and because I have so many things I'm supposed to do in a day as the lady of the house. And just in case anyone ever asks you: on average I accomplish about 17.056935% of everything I'm supposed to accomplish on any given day.

But.
This letter to you is very, super important to me, so I'm giving it a good shot.

First, I want to tell you the season you were born in...because I absolutely love it. You were born thirty-seven years and three days after your mama's birth date. But that's the date.


The season is what I love. It's harvest time. It's when all the chiles are brought in from the fields and you can smell the roasters blacking their skins till the solstice sun that's shone down on those green lovelies bursts straight through and hangs in the air with the smell of warm earth and biting heat. The mornings hold a familiar chill whispering of autumn that burns off in the morning sun. The spectacular clapping booms and shimmer of monsoons remain a formidable force but their numbers dwindle with the darkening days. Volunteer sunflowers beam tall along the roadsides at every turn competing heavenward with the crops. The mountain wildflowers have given their best and brightest; they're fading at the edges now. Tomatoes from the garden burst ripened sunshine in your mouth. Fields of hay lie shorn and dotted with baled rows squared to brace against the cold that will come. There are days when seventy degrees is barely realized and there are Indian Summer afternoons when we sweat the pinnacle of ninety.

My first. You're my first baby I carried to term. My first baby I got to nurse. I carried you exactly thirty-nine weeks. The weight of you swelled me from head to toe beyond comfort in the dead heat of summer...and I rejoiced. I rejoiced when I could only squeeze my huge feet into worn out flip flops and I only had three outfits that were acceptable for public view because every cell of my body was straining to grow and carry the life of you. I hear there are women whose complaints of discomfort are innumerable at the height of summer, women who pray for the end to come quickly. I was not that woman when I carried you. Please don't misunderstand: I. Was. Tremendously. Uncomfortable. But, I also knew every day was a new day I never had the chance to experience when I had your older brother. I missed out on the entire last trimester of a full-term baby with him, so I was determined to cherish keeping you inside and cooking you longer.

Every day of those thirteen weeks, including the ones with haywire hormones and matching out-of-control emotions, including the elusive sleep, including the twenty weeks of shots I had to get that made my backside ache so deeply I couldn't lie on alternating sides every week, including the speeding ticket I got on the way to a chiropractor's appointment (where I was trying to make up lost time from my sluggish movement), including the stress I had over your breech position (which did resolve, and I thank you), including the doula I wanted to keep me calm after the trauma I had in my first pregnancy, including the lectures I got from the midwives about being huge, including the testing for gestational diabetes (which I failed the first time, so I had to take the longer one to "pass"), all of that and more: I reveled in. Because it meant you were growing inside. You didn't disappoint. When you made your debut you were a strapping nine pounds on the dot and twenty-two inches long, and I was thrilled for the brute that you were. I called you "Mister Smashy," and you most certainly were.

My second. You were envisioned by one of my dear friends before I even knew I was pregnant with you. She was floating above me and staring out from my belly was a miniature of my face. It was strange, wondering what her vision meant; just days later, I discovered you. The vision became even more real when we met you face-to-face. You look like me. You look like my father, like Pops. His two older sisters are astounded at the likeness you bear to their baby brother at the same age. You have my eyes. Your dad says he loves my eyes because they're so expressive. Yours already speak volumes.

It's funny because we named you after my side of the family before we even knew what you looked like. Your first name means "victory." My middle means the same. I prayed for victory in your life from the very first awareness of you. It was a huge victory to carry you to full-term and deliver you with no complications. I imagine, hope, and dream you will find many victories throughout your life. Your middle name is my father's middle name, It means "God will provide." Joseph. Besides the amazing man my father (your grandfather) is, there are two really amazing Joseph's in my favorite Book: Joseph, the son of Jacob/Israel, who saved his nation; and Joseph, the stepfather of Jesus, the husband of Mary. These men, your namesakes, are strong, intelligent, humble, caring, thoughtful, insightful, leaders, handsome, kind, and bold. I imagine, hope, and pray you are all these things and more by the provision and leading of God.

My fourth. You're the fourth in the family lineup. I always said I wanted none or four. I was still reeling from the way your brother showed up and all the hours of work that came along with his early arrival when I found out about you. Your dad was telling me it was time for another...that we weren't getting any younger...that the age gap between siblings would be perfect. I wasn't so sure. But. Life has a way of being exactly what we need it to be, even in the uncertainty. I'm so glad you were part of the plan. I'm so glad you're in my life. Our whole family adores you.

Your smile lights up the room. Your laugh is incredible. You're a lively, affectionate, eager, loving, sweet, enthusiastic, easy baby...even if you're still working out the kinks of sleeping through the night. I love your love of life. I love your love of music. I love how you jam out the second you hear the first note. I love the way an electric current shoots through you when you see your brothers walk into the room. I love your six teeth. I love your blondie curls...even though you were born with dark hair...You know, the same thing happened with your Pops: His now greying hair was dark at birth and blonde in childhood.

I love that you're leaving crawling behind and every day your steps increase in confidence as your wobble fades. I've loved your fatness in your cheeks, hands, legs, feet, everywhere, really. It's burning off quickly these days. I miss it already. I love your growley voice, your sweet baby kisses, your joy in fulfilling requests for high fives, your conspiratorial and quizzical eyebrow, your interest in football, your inability to ever really get "too close" to mommy, your peek-a-boo face, and your cherry sour, grippy monkey toes on your square feet. Your sister calls your toes "cherry sours," by the way...her favorite candy.

I love you. I love you more with each passing day. You are a welcome and wanted addition to our family. I look forward to falling in love with a million more things about you for the rest of my life. I'm so glad God gifted you to us to borrow, to raise, to love.

I love you forever, baby.