Swim Bike Run

Dear Danny,

The days are flying by, baby boy.  Next week, you will be five months old.  It has gone so fast already, and, half the time, I can barely remember the week we brought you home from the hospital.  Sleep would have probably helped that, though. 

You had your first ear infection and fever this week.  I’ll admit, I cried.  I just wanted you to feel better, and I have never been so worried about anyone in my entire life.  It was minor, and I am sure I will get used to sicknesses and scrapes and bruises, and maybe broken arms and bumped heads.  But seriously, if it were healthy for you, I would hover over you and keep you in a bubble, even (or especially) after you start walking and running and playing.  Instead, what I have to do as a good mom is to bite my tongue and sit back and let you explore and grow and experiment as you get older.  For right now, though, I still get to hover a bit.

This past weekend, we took you to the US Pro Cycling time trials as they went through City Park right in our neighborhood.  It was so exciting.  Even though you are so little, I had a feeling you were kind of excited, too, listening to the crowd and the cheering and feeling the palpable energy in the park.  I have a feeling that you will be as into cycling as your dad is one day.  He is so excited to get you in the bike trailer so he can ride around with you.  I have to make him wait until it’s safe, though!  There are age limitations on stuff like that, and I am in no hurry for you to get big too fast.  Your dad would stuff the trailer full of pillows and stick you in there if I would let him, but I am insistent on waiting until the proper age as marked on the trailer.  I like to follow the rules! Once you’re big enough, though, I know you and your dad will have many good times on the bike together.

You also came to watch me run a 5k on Sunday morning.   It was a slow race for me; moms gain a lot of weight when they have babies, (some more than others) and getting back in shape is really hard afterwards.  I am struggling with that right now, but I know what kind of mom I want to be for you, and that is the active kind who runs around with her kids and teaches them about all the fun sports that are out there.  As much as your daddy wants to get you on the bike, I am chomping at the bit to get you into the pool.  I love to swim more than anything and am swimming with a group right now where I can compete against other moms and “old ladies” soon.  I have been swimming my whole life and can’t wait til you can come in the water with me.  From how much you love your bath, I have a feeling that the pool will be your favorite, too. 

I can’t wait to see what you are interested in and what you love to do. And I get so excited to see the little peeps of your personality that are starting to show through your smiling and laughing and constant baby babble.  I think you are going to be funny.  You are a little jokester already.  Just like your momma.

Love,

Mom

Parenting is Easy

Dear Danny,

It's amazing how being a parent can bring out a heart-ripping anxiety in even the most laid-back people.  I have been worrying about you every moment since the beginning, but did not initially feel like it was totally out of hand.  And your dad, while substantially less of a freaker-outer than I am, has had his moments, too, where I can look at him and see fear in his eyes. 

The other day, your dad was lifting you out of your bouncer seat and accidentally bonked your head on the edge of the table.  It left a little mark.  And because infants' heads are soft and growing, it also left a little dent.  A dent in your perfect head.  A dent in our baby's skull.  While I was pretty sure you were going to be fine, (which you were about two seconds later; you barely even cried) your dad looked panic stricken and kept glancing at that spot on your head for the rest of the night. The dent went away, and I made jokes, which is what I always do, and said that you seemed a little less intelligent than you had before the bonk, and that your eyes seemed kind of crossed to me.  Your dad laughed, but I could see he still felt bad.  And this is the guy who is trying to devise ways to get you into the bike trailer already (soon, grasshopper, soon).

The point is that we already worry about you, and you can't even walk yet.  The most mobile you get is when you roll over or kick your feet around so it looks like you're running in air. (better than television, by the way) We worry hard and about very different things.  We worry about your future and about your day at daycare and about your first cold (which you have right now) and your college education.  We worry about the world around you and how things seem to be going south really fast in our country. We have always worried about those things, but now this is your world and your country, and that makes it seem so much more important. 

After we brought you home, and after you started sleeping through the night, we had a funny little discussion about you.  I said, "I hate to jinx it, and I don't want to sound like I am dissing all of the other parents out in the world, but seriously?  This is not as hard as people say it is. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm really tired.  And we definitely lucked out with a super happy and low-key baby, but really, I love him so much that this doesn't seem like much of a chore."

And your dad agreed with me.  And we smugly lay next to each other with this little secret learned between us.  That parenting, while definitely difficult, was not as hard for strong, secure, stable people like us as it is for all the other weak parents out there.  So smitten we were with our new knowledge, the knowledge that we were super-parents, a rare breed among today's helicopters and neglectors and over-protectors, that we fell fast into a deep slumber, smug smiles still on our faces.

And then the next night I woke up in a fit of anxiety, a physical wretch in my gut, wondering how I would keep up with you when you started walking.  I sat for several minutes, eyes staring wide into our dark bedroom and thought about you trying to run into the street as a toddler and how I would catch you and keep you safe. And that inevitably led into how I would protect you for your whole life without overprotecting you and thereby turning you into a scarred and dependent adult. 

Then it occurred to me that this is why it's hard.  For the rest of my life, even when you are in your 30s and 40s and 50s, I will worry about you running into the street. Both literally and figuratively. And the hard part is not letting that show. The hard part is not letting on that, inside, I am a constant ball of nerves, waiting for the next bad thing to happen to this small tiny person I am supposed to protect without ruining, while outside, I am this cool, chill mom all about you testing your wings and trying new things and seeing how high you can climb on the jungle gym. I find myself waiting for the next bonk on the head or a mean kid at school, or heartbreak, or bad days at the office, or that you might think all dogs are as nice as ours and get bitten, and on and on and on and trying to mentally prepare myself to have the right answer in every possible situation.  And honestly, I haven't slept quite right since.

Love,

Mom

The Beginning

Dear Danny,

I’ve been meaning to do this since before you were born, but as you might find out one day, and as they say, having a baby changes everything.  In this case, I feel a little less organized, a little less svelte, and a little less interested in spending my free time doing anything but snuggling the crap out of you than I did before you came along.  I have also been procrastinating everything because I am tired and overwhelmed and in love with you and in love with being a mom and obsessed with the aforementioned snuggling. Oh, and there is also the anxiety.  The feeling that maybe I will never be able to do enough for you. 

I was originally going to write this freehand in a fancy leather-bound journal and gift it to you on the day you are married or the day you graduate college or the day you and your spouse have your first child, but then I thought, will journals even be around then?  Will books even mean anything?  But mostly I thought about what a slacker I am when it comes to writing with a pen on paper instead of on my trusty laptop.  Plus, the internet is forever.  Until they invent what comes next.  So, here it is, a blog in your honor that I will show to you one day in order to share all the secrets of how to live life according to me and how much you mean to our family.  Here it goes:

You are my son, born on April 6, 2012.  And I am your mom, born a little more than 35 years prior to that. I love you more than I have ever loved anything.  Your laugh is my favorite sound. And your giant blue eyes are completely mesmerizing.  I will never do anything to hurt you.  At least not on purpose.

Your dad loves you just as much as I do, and he is a really good guy who I am glad I married every single day.  Even on the days when we want to smack each other a little bit.  For while your dad and I will always love each other, I will never lie to you and tell you that marriage is easy.  Especially when you marry someone who challenges you and makes you think all the time (which I hope you do). Or someone who is your polar opposite.  It is always interesting, and almost always fun, but it is never easy.

Over the past four months, we have watched you turn from a tiny newborn whose eyes couldn’t focus and who was wobbly and fragile (we were so scared we were going to break you at first) and very alien-like into a baby person who laughs and smiles and is starting to get our little jokes and grab things from our hands and make his way in our household and in this world.  You hold up your head and roll over in your crib (almost all the way) and you look around when you hear the dogs come into the room because they are your favorite source of humor.  You say so many words that aren't real words, but I can tell by looking at you that you are saying something very important.  When you smile and laugh, I cannot help but to do the same.  Even when you are trying to charm me out of getting you to take a nap.  You are amazing, Danny.  Absolutely amazing.

We are a three-pack now, your dad and you and I.  We are a family.  You are our little boy. And we are all in for a big adventure.  When your dad and I got married, we vowed to tackle every adventure in life, both the good ones and the bad ones, as a team. You are part of that team now, and you are our best adventure yet. We can’t wait to see how you grow. 

Love,

Mom