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My darling Courtland Whaley,

Here we are. We’ve reached your first big milestone. You are officially 31 days old, which means you’ve graduated from having your life tallied by days to by months.

I promised myself that I would write you these monthly letters as I did for your big sister. While it is indeed more challenging to find the time to sit down and put words to paper with the presence of now four dependents in the household, I have so much I want to say. So much I want to record about your impact on this family. So much that I want you to know years from now when you are able to read these yourself.

It’s truly hard to believe that we were ever a whole family without your presence. You’ve made such a graceful entrance into our lives.

It began the moment you were born. No great screams or cries as you see depicted in the movies. Rather, you arrived in peace. When you were placed on my chest and I rejoiced that you were finally here, you quietly lay in my arms, allowing us to meet in utter tranquility. In fact, I found myself asking, “Is she okay?” as I was alarmed by just how calm and relaxed those first moments were together. Of course, you were fine. More than fine. And we have since heard you exercise those vocal chords plenty.

Your sister has taken to you with such joy and enthusiasm. She requests to hold you. And is so very tender and sweet when you are placed in her toddler arms. She kisses your head constantly. Revels in touching your long, slender ski-like feet. She says she loves her baby sister. She brings you your blanket. Offers you your pacifier. And she has even asked to feed you, although we’ve had to explain that for now that is just Mommy’s job. She shows no signs of resentment or bitterness at your presence, and we are so relieved to see the bond growing between you both. Of course, we have to remind her to be gentle, to not run or be wild when you are on the floor doing tummy time or rocking in your swing. But she’s a two-year old, so this is a fairly consistent reality for her engagement with all other living beings. Particularly our dogs.

Speaking of the dogs, I think Hanna would lick you to pieces if she were allowed. This pup is beyond excited to have another child in her midst. She wants to be close to you. To protect you. To coat you in her slobbery puppy kisses. When you cry, she paces nervously at our feet, gazing up with her big bologna tongue and bug eyes looking for reassurance that you are indeed okay. Much like her and Addison, I imagine that you two will be the best of friends one day.

And how do I begin to describe the impact you’ve had on me and your Daddy. It is thrilling for us to go through this crazy, sleep-deprived stage of welcoming an infant into our home, because this time, we have experience on our side. We know to enjoy it. To bask in it. To snuggle your warm, nuzzly, squeaky baby self as much as humanly possible for with each passing moment you grow, and mere months from now this will all feel like a distant memory.

The fact that we are able to all be home together, without distractions, interruptions, and the demands of work has made all the difference. We get to just be a family. And that is such a precious and magical thing that you have made possible for us. We lie in bed at night with you between us, soaking up each gurgle, and yawn, and silly facial expression from that Gumby skin, cherishing how fleeting this time is. Sure, we’re tired. Sure, we’re covered in baby spit up and up to our elbows in dirty diapers. Sure, your cries are shrill. But your sweetness. Your innocence. Your helplessness. This time around we know to really soak it all up. To stop looking ahead to each new development, and instead to focus on what we have before us. A brand new baby girl. A new beginning. A fresh pair of eyes with which to see the world.

In many ways you remind me of your sister as an infant. That crazy Mohawk of fuzzy hair. The baby dragon breathing. The wide, bewildered eyes as they try to make sense of the world around them. The cough that sounds like you’re faking to get out of going to school. Those slender baby fingers like anemones tracing the curve of my body while you eat. The dramatically grand effort of raising your enormous infant head, and the even more dramatic release when you decide it is just too much for you to bear.

The startling arms that thrash out in front of you and give the effect of a miniature thug. I keep waiting for you to exclaim, “‘Sup, Mama” while flashing a gang sign.

The way you emerge from slumber like a turtle emerging from its shell. Your wrinkly baby neck careening outward as you fight your way out of the unconscious.

Your love of the water, although admittedly we bathe you less than we bathed your sister. That’s part of life as a second born, I suppose. We don’t have the luxury of devoting every waking minute to your presence, so nightly bath time went to the chopping block. I promise that you are still as sweet smelling as ever, even with baths being offered only every other night.

That perfect button nose.

And yet, in so many ways you are so very different from you sister. Your interest in the pacifier and yet complete disinterest in being swaddled. Disinterest is perhaps too light a term to describe your feelings on the swaddle. Rage is truly the more apt terminology. Unfortunately, you sleep better and are more relaxed when we suffer through your screams and do indeed wrap you in a swaddle, but it is never without much protestation.

The way you go from zero to FURIOUS in a heart beat. There is very little middle ground with you. You’re happy and squirmy and squeaky one minute, and hysterical and screamy the next.

Your long and beautiful nail beds. Your translucent eyebrows and blonde blonde hair. Your eyes that are still so very googley. While ridiculously adorable and silly, this was a tad disconcerting until your pediatrician explained that that was totally normal and I shouldn’t be alarmed by your cross-eyed gazes. Apparently I need to have some patience and give your eyes more time to develop.

The way you form an “O” with your mouth and then thrust your upper lip over your bottom, cooing and forming a platypus snout.

Your restless, fitful sleep habits. You thrash. And squirm. And writhe. I blame your refusal to be swaddled, as you have these loose baby limbs that are typically the cause of such fits. I’ll admit, it is highly disruptive. Mostly because my Mama Bear instincts can’t help but wake me whenever you move even the slightest hair on your body. I hope for both of our sakes that you become a more relaxed sleeper in the coming months.

Your Popeyed, disgruntled reaction every time you begin to breastfeed. You see, you have your Daddy’s Gumby-esque ability to distort your face and raise one eyebrow already. It’s as though the very concept of drinking Mama’s milk is an utterly foreign and confusing endeavor each feeding. This is, of course, surprising given that you eat every two hours with great consistency, but it seems to be utterly bamboozling each time. I find it unbelievably adorable.

You’ve developed a growing list of nicknames. Popeye. Platypus. Squeaker. Turtle. Baby alien. Baby dinosaur. Grumpy old man. And just today, your father likened you to a mouse when you were breathing rapidly. Apparently you are reminiscent of a scared rodent when you inhale and exhale in such a manner. While these names may not sound terribly endearing or flattering, I promise, they are said with the utmost affection and adoration. Because it’s true. We adore you. Every little thing about you.

The other night, Daddy and I were once again commenting on how ridiculously adorable you are and how much we love you and just how very much fun we are having this second time through the infant stage (yes, we are relishing this time, on 3 hours of sleep, with hourly poopy diapers and puddles of spit up. Go figure!), and your Daddy said, “Doesn’t this make you want to have 10 more ?”

The fact that you can elicit such feelings should be indication of just how very much we love you.

To me, you are perfect.

Happy 1 month, Courtland.

143 Mama