Dearest little Bear Cub,
I am writing this on the eve of your birthday and remembering where I was one year ago tonight. I was in a hospital room waiting for your daddy to come up from triage so he could help me with the contractions. I was having IVs started and having blood pressure taken and looking to Debra for guidance. And I was starting to feel the rush of knowing that I was about to meet you. Gramma came in after Daddy got back. And Aunt Sue was there. We were all so eager to meet this little person who had been the center of my universe for so long, and whose name I didn't even know yet.
It was contractions and blood pressure checks and monitoring and pushing and cajoling to make me do what it took to help you along. And then it was hearing about how much hair you had. Hearing about what time you might be born. Wondering whether everyone around me was crazy . . . this baby was never going to come!
And then it was you. Daddy catching you. Aunt Sue telling us all that you were our baby girl. Our little baby girl. I was on my knees and then there you were in front of me. You were red and hollering and wet and just beautiful. And then I was back in the bed and you were on my tummy. It was so cold in the room, and all I knew was that you were warm and Daddy was there with us and the rest of the world was so far away.
You captured our hearts, baby girl. But more than that, you filled that perfect, Ellie-shaped hole in our lives. We didn't know it was Ellie-shaped, but God did. And he sent such a beautiful, perfect little blessing to fill it.
Since that day, you have grown so quickly. So much of it is a blur. Late nights of nursing blur into late nights of shrieking and crying and refusing to sleep. My tiny little bundle of needs became a bigger bundle of demands. And yet all you had to do was smile up at me, and no matter how sleep-deprived I was I melted.
You didn't like to smile for a long time. You liked to stare. You studied things. And people. And you didn't smile. But then Mrs. DeHart stroked your little chin one day. You smiled at her. We all melted.
Anna noticed. She became absolutely determined to bring out your smile every Sunday. It's that rewarding.
Daddy is completely owned by that smile. And you know it. And it's a beautiful thing to watch.
I look at you now and I long for the days when I could scoop you up and swaddle you and just hold you. When I could put only a diaper on you and hold you against my bare skin and know that you could sleep there for hours if I just didn't move -- and I didn't.
But if we go back there, I won't hear "DADADA" and "buh-bye" anymore. I won't listen to you talking to your lion in the back seat of the car. I won't see that "what, me?" grin as you plunge your hand in the dog's water dish. I won't revel in your sleepy little smile peering out at me from between your fists, which are clenched around the crib rails as I come into your nursery in the mornings.
Sometimes I go into your room at night just to see you curled up and sleeping. Usually your little legs are tucked underneath you and your tushie is in the air. Your little ducky pajamas have a ducky on the bum. It's usually sticking up and inviting a pat. I'll miss patting the ducky this time next year.
Each year will bring new challenges, new joys, new trials, new experiences. And each year will make me look back wistfully while I look forward eagerly, all while trying not to miss the experiences of the present. Each new year will test our bond and strengthen our love. And I will never know if I'm doing this motherhood thing right.
But know this: not one second will pass that I don't love you with everything that I am. The joy that you bring to us is immeasurable. The memories of this past year are beautiful. And the thought of the next year of memories is amazing. You are amazing, and we love you.
God bless you, little girl.
Love, Mommy and Daddy
