Tomorrow, you will be one year old.
On your third night of life, you reduced me to tears because I couldn't get you to wake up and eat. Tears! I have never been so tired in my entire life. I was even a surgery intern, once upon a time, I'm very familiar with exhaustion. So congratulations, you have superior exhaustive powers.
You started out as "Peabody," but your dad calls you "Little Bear," which seems more appropriate considering that you are so wild. You are willing to be held, but you are not amenable to cuddling. You do not tolerate meditative mother-daughter periods, and even our bedtime rituals are all-business. Sometimes, however, when you aren't quite ready to go to sleep, you reject my arms, and demand your father's. Sometimes a girl just needs her daddy, you see.
You have more facial expressions than a mime. I literally feel sad sometimes that my eyes are not cameras, because I will catch glimpses of you in positions or in lighting that breaks my heart with your perfection, and I want to share those moments with everyone. However, you rarely hold still long enough for pictures, because you are constantly on the go. Sometimes you flash this silly, adorable, toothy grin that makes you look like a demented bunny, and your dad thinks it's really funny when you frown, because apparently you look just like me. When your brother walks into a room, you watch him so expectantly, knowing that sooner or later, he will do something hilarious, and you will laugh uproariously. The first time you laughed, I thought I would die of joy.
When you were just starting to babble, you would stare at completely blank walls and hold entire conversations. So, I'm fairly certain that you see angels. And yet, you can be more than a little devilish, like when you cried all the way to Kansas City. Your brother wanted to give you away that day. And your dad wasn't far behind. Most of the time, though, you are easygoing and cheerful, which is something you definitely did not inherit through the maternal line. You have also inherited your father's need to explore, however, which is not something an infant needs. You scared me so badly the other night when I thought you were about to swallow something you shouldn't have. So badly that I cried from relief because you were still safe.
You love being in water, which I think is funny, because your favorite lullaby is "Baby Beluga". When we brought you to the river for the Fourth of July fireworks, you were so overstimulated and tired that I thought we would have to leave, but I started singing that song to you and you were instantly calm, like I had thrown a life preserver to someone drowning. You dance, and you bang on the piano, and you are mesmerized by your Papa playing the guitar. I think you were born with music inside of you.
We seek out and celebrate all of your milestones with such fervor: first smile, rolling over, sitting up, crawling. I rejoice when you learn something new, like the first day you signed or when you copy a sound after your brother demonstrates. And yet, I hate that you are growing up, that you aren't the same little freakishly loud, wrinkly-old-man infant we brought home one year ago. I would freeze time to keep you from changing, because I love every single moment with you and cannot bear for any of the moments to be over.
One time, before you were born, I dreamed that you were not mine, that you existed, but I could not have you. So I thank God every day when I wake, when you are and that I do.
Happy birthday, little bear.
My slightly-insane life and times
