| | My dearest, precious child:
You are now over a year old. According to one friend, past immediate danger, but I still check your breathing occasionally in the middle of the night. Fear of losing you, of someone/thing hurting you, of not raising you the best way possible, etc. etc., permeates my every thought. A light anxiety underlines my life. It's separate from the love, from the overwhelming joy I feel when you smile, when you come toward me, when you sit and "read" a book, when I feel your sweet breath next to my cheek or nose. I can take it together and it doesn't cause me stress- the anxiety is the drive to take care of you, to protect you from the harm in this world.
This world is crazy. There's a recession right now, one that I hope will be over by the time you can read this. It brings out despair, loneliness, greed and emptiness. I find myself wanting to move to the countryside or an isolated village far far away and disconnect from everything, raise you on real cow's milk and homegrown veggies. But we are lucky and doing well. I have a steady job that I enjoy, your father is studying and teaching, we have a loving family, nutty dogs, a big house, wonderful care for you during the day (oh how I miss you then!), and only a small pinch in the wallet, nothing compared to most. We are trying to create a budget, I am trying to control my love for shoes, yet I can go to the Y and swim and next week I start a sewing class (first project: a dress for you, my sweet Clover girl). Things move forward endlessly, one way or another.
Your father and I have been together nearly ten years (3 weeks to go). Your arrival has changed us and our relationship, deepening our love and bond and also exposing more of our unbridled selves. We don't mince words, even when we should. We sometimes forget to kiss each other good night. I can't stand the way he chews with his mouth open and he hates my messy messy ways. But I am so happy to have picked him to be your father, to be the one to throw you in the air, and tuck you in bed, and calm your cries and put your tights on backwards. You are one lucky girl.
You are walking, nearly running, and climbing on everything. Your first word was "no," followed by "uh-oh" (as in, I dropped something) and now "hello." You've said "momma" and "mommy" and "mama" and "me," indiscriminately, just like the books say. Your favorite book seems to be I Love You Through and Through, which you got from Jennifer, your daytime surrogate mom. You sleep with a cheap bunny whose ears are all grungy already and you wake promptly at 5 am for a morning feeding before dozing off again. It's hard to get you up at 7:15. You are getting picky about food, but not insolent. Your smile is absolutely gorgeous, and you know it. Every stranger you come across knows it. You like Blazer more than Dunga and try to pet and hug him and pull his ears too hard. You hate your car seat. You've got a pot belly. Your hair is starting to curl oh-so-slightly in the back Your eyes are like the Caribbean sea - green or blue depending on the light, shining brightly, dazzlingly. You are the Clover of my dreams, entrenched so deep in my heart it hurts.
Happy Birthday, kid.
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| | Posted 4/23/2009 10:46 PM - 9 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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