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Month 18

ourtland, darling girl,

You are now a year and a half old. Teetering on the edge of babyhood and toddlerdom. There are moments when you are such a little girl. Using words (yes, words! Cheese happens to be your favorite. That’s my girl! We’ll take a plate of nachos over sugary treats any day). Pulling out the chairs at the kitchen table, climbing atop and proudly sitting like the rest of us. Putting on your winter coat by mimicking your big sister’s “flip over the head” trick. Feeding the dogs. Putting your laundry in the hamper. Brushing your teeth. Perching on a stool to wash your hands. Dancing to music. Helping unload the dishwasher. Cheesing it up for the camera. Coloring, whether at the kid’s table in the playroom or all over the sides of the tub with the bath crayons. Reading books, pointing joyously at different characters and people that you recognize or understand. And announcing, proudly, when you soil yourself (I POOPED!) while grabbing violently at your crotch. Oh toddlers. So much fun. So very adorable. And oh so very fickle and unpredictable.

And then there are the moments when you are still my sweet baby. At night, as you wrap your blanket around your shoulders and nestle into my arms, insisting on being rocked and soothed before being placed in your crib. After naps, when you’re flushed and rosy-cheeked and still groggy with sleep and slump into my shoulders to ease yourself back into the day. When you fall or are startled and your face melts into tears of distress and you reach desperately upward for me or daddy. When you’re wrapped in your towel post-bath and I’m consumed by the air of baby powder and lotion and the soft touch of your skin. In the wee hours of the morning when you cry out in the dark and your only source of comfort is sandwiched between your parents’ embrace.

While you will always be my baby, I know that these precious baby days are numbered. You are growing so fast. Literally, as we measured you last week and you are taller than your sister (who is also off the charts for height) was when she was 22 months old. Just this afternoon, you were lounging across my chest, clutching my phone between your palms and joyously bouncing it from side to side in rhythm with Will.i.am’s Sesame Street video (which I wrote about in your sister’s 18 month birthday letter as well). I was transported back to those days with your sister, slammed with nostalgia and a yearning for her little brown-haired bob and baby profile. And when I glanced into the kitchen, there she was, long-blonde ponytail down her back brushing the strings of her Peter Rabbit apron, chopping vegetables to help your father prepare dinner while discussing why Saturn was her favorite planet in the Solar System (because of the rings, duh). And in a flash, I know that will be you. A little person with articulate thoughts and opinions and coordination. So I’m committing that profile to memory. The way your hair curls and waves at its tips, and your nose scrunches and eyes squint when you’re truly happy, and your cheeks flush that cherry shade of red, and the top of your head fits just so into the crook of my neck and the way you carry an unencumbered, fearless energy about you. And while the other attributes may fade, I hope that last one never does.

Happy 18 months, baby girl.

143 Mama

Month 17

ear Courtland,

I’m sure that you’re mighty frustrated that you cannot read these words. Nor understand them when I read this to you this evening. Frustration is a key sentiment in your emotional vocabulary these days. Its roots lie in our inability to understand your every demand and desire. We need you to find your words, English words, and fast, before this entire house collapses under the weight of your stomping, flailing feet and body hurling itself to the floor.

You have a language, my dear. Just not one that we understand. Often times, that’s more than okay, and you contentedly babble strings of garbled syllables together and we talk right back to you like we comprehend every “bah dah dat!” But other times, when you are feverishly trying to communicate your current plea, and Daddy and I are not picking up what you’re putting down, well, we very quickly see a transformation from babbly, smily, happy toddler to furious, tantrum-throwing, fire-breathing monster. We’ve taught you more sign language than we ever taught Sunny because you are much more particular and insistent and require an ability to more specifically and immediately communicate your needs. You’ve mastered “more,” “please,” “thank you” (which usually transforms into abundant air kisses), “up,” “down,” and “finished.” Finished is by far the most adorable sign, as rather than turning your hands and wrists from side to side, you merely fold and unfold your fingers into fists with your arms lifted high above your head. And oh, I die and go to toddler heaven every time.

You are Independent. With a capital I. You not only want us to understand and meet your every whim and fancy, you want to do almost everything for yourself, by yourself. If we dare try to feed you dinner, you throw your head and shoulders back over the edge of the highchair, lips clasped shut, before furiously shaking your head back and forth. Daddy commented last night that he doesn’t remember dinner being quite so messy when Sunny was this age. And it’s merely because you feed yourself every meal, and due to the limitations of 17 month old dexterity, a decent portion winds up on the floor, or Ursa’s head, every day, three times a day. But, man, you wield a spoon better than any soon-to-be 1.5 year old that I’ve ever seen.

You love playing with your baby dolls. You drag them around the house by random appendages, stopping to cradle them in your arms, while cooing “Awwww” and bestowing sloppy toddler kisses on their head. You pretend to feed them food from the kitchen, making smacking and slurping noises with your mouth to imitate their eating. Then you smother them in piles of baby blankets, tucked on random cushions or floor spaces that you use as make-shift beds. Primarily because your older sister is having a tough time sharing the doll bed that Santa Claus bestowed on our household this Christmas. Trust me when I say, that despite your frequent bickering and screaming and grabbing at one another, you are each other’s favorite people in the whole wide Universe. Sunny informed me last night that you were her best friend. And I quite agree with that statement.

Also, an -ism that is so distinctly you that your Daddy and I discuss often is the way in which you grunt and strain and moan and groan whenever you pick something up, or help me with the laundry, or carry something to the trash. The most minute of physical exertions is met with loud, deliberate “Uuugggggghs!” and “Ohhhhhs” like that of a very out-of-shape, older man. It is adorable. Don’t ever change.

The most delightful, most endearing, most delectable thing about you, darling girl, is your effusive and affectionate personality. You bestow kisses and hugs unexpectedly, with an uninhibited freedom and air that I envy and I hope you never ever lose. If you are feeling like you want a kiss, you’ll stop me mid-conversation by grabbing my face and planting an open-mouthed, slobbery wet one right on the lips. Then you smile wildly and nuzzle into my chest. This weekend, when you were wide awake at 4 in the morning, I had you nestled in bed with me and you repeatedly pulled your face up to mine to kiss and rub noses and well, smart, my love, very smart indeed. How could I be annoyed when such sweetness was being showered upon me?

You are a toddling paradox, my Whaley girl. And I so admire that about you. It keeps us on our toes and it keeps people guessing. As you get older, you’ll learn what an invaluable asset that is.

Happy 17 months,
143 Mama

Month 16

arling 16 Month Old,

Yesterday, I was on the phone with your Daddy, and while we were speaking I heard the distinct intonations and pitches of your voice clamoring around the background. I asked what on earth you were doing and Daddy responded, “Kaki’s just being Kaki.”

And man, isn’t it the truth? You are such a personality, my love. Spirited. Fierce. Opinionated. Willful.

My daughter.

It’s been apparent since the day that you were born, but becomes clearer and clearer with every passing day.

Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you, as you fuss and yell and pitch a fit and I have no idea what has prompted this display of anarchy. And yet, on a dime, you’ll turn that screaming into righteous giggling and merry-making and suddenly I realize that I had never fully experienced joy until you arrived on this Earth. And I mean that with the ferocity and honesty with which you attack life.

When she was good she was very very good and when she was bad she was horrid.

That’s your mantra. And I can envision it tattooed across your butt when you’re an angsty fifteen year old and all of that screaming and drama is getting you no where with your parents who just DO NOT UNDERSTAND!

And as much as you may think that we do not understand you, my Whaley girl, know that you and I are cut from the same cloth and so I understand you as well as I can understand myself, and your father chose to spend his life with such a personality, so he loves and respects you all the more for it. You will no doubt make a passionate, driven, inspired woman, and the world could certainly use more of those.

All our love in the Universe,

143 Mama

42 Months

Oh hey, Three and A Half Year Old,

This day sure snuck up on me. I hadn’t planned on writing you a letter for this milestone. I said that a year ago. Why I thought that this half birthday would feel any different, less filled with stories and developments worth marking, I do not know, because you…

You?

You are amazing.

You’re kind and loving and creative and smart and so so SO very sweet. From the way you play with your baby doll, making sure that she’s tucked under her covers so she doesn’t get cold at night, to how you carefully stow Shaun the Sheep in an old pretzel jar to keep him from getting eaten by coyotes. From how you hold your little sister’s hand and lead her around the house, teaching her how to push the grocery cart or how to feed the dogs or how to crawl through the tunnel into your forts. From how you help Daddy put the chickens into the coop each evening to how you line up your stuffed animals and tell them stories from your favorite books. Fletcher and the Falling Leaf is your current favorite – we read it nightly – and just this week you’ve had you face painted TWICE with Fletcher’s icicle covered tree. From the way you absolutely rock out and sing at the top of your lungs, word for word, to any Taylor Swift song to the way you hug me so tightly and still say, “NO! I love you to the moon and FRONT!” and giggle with the silliness of your claim.

Your make believe continues to be absolutely mesmorizing. This evening your daddy and I listened as you built a road out of your blocks and drove a toy car up and down the road, pretending that our family was on a trip to Cape Cod. You imitated each of our voices, and when impersonating daddy, you made this goofy, gruff voice and even said, “Okay kids, now we’re going to Cape Cod. Wait! I forgot my wallet. I have to get it. Then we’ll go to Cape Cod.”

Oh you know your father all too well for a child of only three years, 6 months.

You are a delight, my darling. Not without tantrums and complicated 3-year old emotions, but every day I am struck by what a pleasure it is to call myself your mommy. I went to my first of many Parents Nights last month, and as we went around the room introducing ourselves, I had the privilege of saying, “Hi, I’m Ashley. Sunny’s mom.”

And I want you to know the pride that I felt in that moment as those words exited my mouth. And I want to you to know the pride that I will always feel with those words, with that fact.

I am so proud to be your mommy.

143 Mama

Here is a song that you learned recently at school. We now hear it daily during mealtime, as you take note of what food groups we’re eating.

Month 15

icky Kaks,

This week, inspired by many a comment at your immense and towering height, I held you up against Sunny’s growth chart. You, my dear, are the height Addison was when she was 19 months old. As a reminder, this letter is to mark your 15 month of life, so whoa Jill and the Bean Stalk! We’re going to need to renovate our house before you hit puberty as I’m convinced the ceilings of our little farm house just won’t cut it when you’re full grown without inflicting scoliosis. It’s so completely awesome that both you and your sister will be tall, statuesque women. Middle school will be tough. I know, I lived it with every boy at chest height. Slow dancing equals WAY awkward. But, I promise, there will come a time in your life when you will embrace and take pride in your six foot plus stature. You’re already on your way!

This has been a month of costumes, and you made quite the oxymoronic Wolf (far too cute to be big and bad), and you were the Eeyore of the cow world at Homecoming. I must admit that I will miss the simple joy of dressing up my stumbling one year old in ridiculous animal apparel. I fear that by next year that stubborn and noisy personality of yours will have taken control of all wardrobe decisions, so I won’t get such an unburdened hand in the process.

Because when I say that you are stubborn and noisy that does not adequately describe the way in which you furiously hurl food from the table if it doesn’t suit your palette, or mommy or daddy dare try to feed you, don’t we know that you can do this yourself? Or the way you scream with the fervor of a hopeless barn cat being mauled by a pack of coyotes when you get bored in your car seat. One would think that your seat had grown claws and carnivorous teeth with the way you carry on. You insist on climbing all furniture, specifically so that you can stand on top of any table surface, pulling every bottle, can, and jar out of the recycling, rummaging around under the sinks, and flinging every single book off the shelf at least three times a day. If we try to stop you, well, ready your earplugs, because the resulting trifecta (pouting/screaming/flailing) is ferocious. Better you make a mess or perfect your trapeze-balancing skills than I intervene.

And once again, I find myself writing about the more unpleasant extremes of your personality, which just is not fair, because, my dear, when you are good, you are so very very good. You can now feed the dogs without any assistance. You know which bowl is Hanna’s and that it goes on the floor, and you understand that Ursa’s goes up on the bench. You clap and smile with utmost pride every time you finish the mealtime routine, patting the dogs’ backs while cooing “Oh whoa whoa!!” And I cannot get enough of the way you dance and shake and shimmy during our daily family dance parties. You are so intent on learning to jump like the rest of us. You bend at the waist and fling your arms skyward in an attempt to defy gravity and yet, for now, your feet stay firmly planted to the ground. I will be sad the day you loose those concrete appendages. You imitate Emilio’s crow and every time Ursa barks you declare NA! NA! to try to silence her. You sit in your “reading chair” once a day, quietly flipping through pages in your board books. You hug and kiss and laugh and smile and play with your big sister. When you are happy and cheerful, it is impossible for us to be anything but the same, no matter how grey or dreary the day (which these days, is quite the frequent occurrence). Thanks for being my all natural sunlamp.

Sadly, the past week has been marked by a stopped up digestive system. You have been suffering at the hand of your preferred diet of bananas, cheese and bread. And it has been a pitiful and stressful sight to behold. We’ve been inflicting some serious dietary changes and I’ve taken to wearing earplugs at mealtime to combat your protestations (see paragraph 3). But let me tell you something, kid, if you ever doubt for a second how much your father and I love you, take solace in the fact that he and I have now each helped pull feces from your struggling, stopped up bum to alleviate your suffering faster. And while this may embarrass you horribly that I wrote about prying poop from your butt for the whole wide Internet to read, I guarantee that I am not the first nor the last parent to demonstrate this kind of loyalty and love. I would do anything to ease your pain and comfort your cries, including directly assisting in your bowel movements. THAT, my darling, is love. And I wish I could state it in a more eloquent and refined fashion, but I think this sums it up quite perfectly.

Wishing you a more regular month and all my love,
143 Mama

Month 14

ourtland, baby,

We are coming off quite the month. In fact, just this morning an ambulance paid one very expensive house call to Cartwheel Farm. You broke out in hives from the antibiotics and thank the sweet Baby Cheez-its, the allergy proved no more severe than that, but your pediatrician wanted to be extra cautious.

It was a month filled with heartache and sorrow. And I’m so sorry that it culminated in a trip to the ER where you were subjected to such madness. The confusion on your face was potentially the most devastating of all. As we held you to the hospital bed, and the nurses and doctor stuck you with needles and thermometers and catheters, you stared at us, wild eyed, hysterical, with this look of total and utter confusion. Why were your parents letting this happen to you? Why were we helping it happen to you? Why weren’t we stopping them?

And baby, I am so so sorry for causing that fear and bewilderment. I wish that you understood when I told you that it was for your own good. That we wanted to make you feel better. That we were doing it to help you. But you can’t understand. And so I rock you in my arms and whisper I’m sorry and try to gain back the trust that was lost by my hands tethering you to that bed.

You must know, my love, that you have provided the perspective and distraction and pure, genuine happiness that has helped not only your mommy and daddy survive this month, but those that we love that are hurting most. Your Donna has said time and again that videos and pictures of you put a smile on her face when she didn’t know it was possible to do so. You have helped buoy her through this unimaginable time, with your silly smile, your antics, your snuggles.

You are such an amazing little person. So full of life. Unbridled and messy. I am struck again by just how much I adore and am in complete envy of the one year old approach to life. Everything is new. And wondrous. The tickle of a leaf on your nose during our hike up Stony Ledge. The feel of the linoleum floor in the hospital on your bare toes. The sound of mama’s phone ringing. The taste of apples. The act of flipping pages in your books (which you sit and do contentedly at least once a day. I Love You, Stinky Face is far and away your favorite book. You bring it to me to read over and over again). The sensation of the running faucet in the tub. Or your blanket on your face. Or you sister cozied up next to you in your “forts.” Each is met with pure, innocent enthusiasm and wonder. Your only word is “What’s that?” and you say it constantly, about everything. You point at pictures on the wall. At the new lights in the kitchen. At a rock in the driveway. At your doggies running around the yard. At your sister dancing to Taylor Swift. At your daddy cooking dinner. What’s DAT!? you proclaim with equal parts curiosity and demand. And it so perfectly describes the state you’re in, your approach to life, who you are.

I hope that you will hold on to a piece of that for eternity. I know I sure will.

Happy 14 Months, sweet baby.

143 Mama

Month 13

ix,

We’re coming off of another challenging night. I wish that weren’t the case. I wish that I could stop writing about these evening woes. I wish that I knew how to stop the tears. I wish that we had you figured out. And yet, and yet…

What I will say is that our nocturnal routine has seen great improvement this month, and I feel optimistic (for the first time in a long while) that you will sleep through the night with regularity. Soon.

I will also say that while you were fitful and screamy for nearly three hours last night, that brief fifteen minute period when my embrace was a source of comfort rather than fury is what I will remember twenty years from now. Our chins pressed side by side, your silky baby hair brushing against my lips, sweet whispers of Little girl, little girl, Mama’s here. Mama will always be here and your arms grasped so tightly around my neck that those days of being connected as one were upon us. Those are the vignettes that have been archived. That is what I remember.

You are challenging, Little One. But don’t you ever think for a second that I don’t love you with every fiber of my being. While I had come to understand that paradox and tension were the essence of parenthood, you have brought that understanding to new heights. In one breath I will decry your constant motion and pursuit of trouble while declaring unabashed adoration and awe at your spirited, sparkling personality. You hurl your body to the ground in frustration, look up at me with tear stained cheeks and a face rivaling Munch’s model for “The Scream” and then let loose a noise comparable to what that painting suggests, and I am at a loss. How do you manage a 13 month old’s temper tantrum? Minutes later you will stagger over to my legs and reach you arms toward the sky and, upon being lifted to my face, will throw your whole person into a hug that is filled with more emotion and appreciation and love than I could have ever known was possible from one of so little life experience. While your sister certainly cried and hugged at this age, you do both with a heightened level of attention, emotion and passion. The lows may be lower, oh, but the highs, the highs, well, I’ve been watching far too much Breaking Bad, but I can guarantee you that they’re better than methamphetamine. And far safer.

You are busy. So very busy. I keep reminding myself that your sister wasn’t yet walking at this stage in her life, and yet you have been taking on the world, two-legged, for nearly three months. I must stop comparing. I have to stop comparing. You two are so very different. And yet you both are the reason that my world keeps turning. You are my reason. Both of you.

And the vicarious pride I feel when I see you contentedly perched in your little rocking chair, visibly proud of your own developmental success, is just a taste of the kind of vicarious pleasure and purpose that I will continue to feel as you take on the world with all the spirt and passion and intensity that is already at the heart of who you are.

You are your mother’s daughter.

I have been labeled as “difficult” and “complicated” and “passionate” and “emotional” and even “controversial” in my time, and while I was once insecure about such labels, I now see them as points of pride. In order to stand up for myself and women and mothers as a greater group, I have had to say things that make others uncomfortable. I have had to have the courage to stand by my experience and push against the norm, and be willing to make others frustrated or angry by this refusal to accept the status quo.

Remember my love, well behaved women seldom make history. You no doubt, we’ll be one for the ages.

Happy 13 months, Courtland Whaley.

143 Mama

Month 12

or my darling One Year Old, Courtland Whaley,

How has it been a full 12 months since this day? This moment? In many ways, it feels as though you have always been here. Our family has always consisted of four people. I have always functioned without a solid night’s sleep. I have always known the joy of your smile. I have always understood how a parent could so effortlessly love more than one child without having to divide her heart.

Heck, the way you cruise around the world on two legs with such staggering speed suggests that you’ve been on this Earth more than 365 days, and yet, today is the day that you entered our lives one year ago.

And what a year it has been! A move to your birth state so that Daddy and I can raise you and your sister in the kind of home we’d always dreamed we would create for our family. Our sweet Ursa’s cancer and amputation and subsequent treatment. Two relatively momentous events for our family, and you’ve been here all the while to bring us laughter, and joy, and perspective.

And perhaps it is because of these significant occasions and the fact that you are our second born, and our attention is thus divided, that it does not feel as though a full year has gone by. Time seems to be moving at warp speed. You are now walking, and communicating (in your own 12 month old way. Think: Shrieking and babbling and generally being shockingly loud and yet shockingly adorable), and mimicking, and growing into a little person and I just do not understand how that is possible in such a seemingly brief period of time. We have your first word, for crying out loud (which you still do frequently, and with much gusto)!

Much like your sister, your first word was not Mama or Dada. Daddy and I are 0-0. Dang it!

Unlike your sister, however, your first word is, appropriately, No. You hear that from us on a regular basis given your propensity for danger, and your three year old sister’s stage of testing boundaries, and your dogs’ wild and wacky personalities. It comes as no surprise that when Ursa begins barking to alert us that a car has pulled into the driveway, you promptly begin stomping around the house, babbling “NA! NA! NA!” Or when Addison rips a toy from your clutches (she’s still working on the whole sharing thing), you thrash your arms from side to side, wailing “NA! NA! NA!” Or when you are very tired and very needy for your Mama and I dare try to vacate the room, you toddle after me, flopping those strawberry blonde locks this way and that, all the while pitifully pleading “Na. Na. Na.”

And shall I mention again how frighteningly smart you are proving to be? I shall indeed. Because, holy Einstein, Batman! Yesterday at the beach, you merrily entertained yourself by using a shovel to fill your bucket with sand, so closely mimicking the three year old that I nearly called you Addison on more than one occasion. If you find a brush, you do not hesitate to brush your hair, and then waddle over to the dogs to brush theirs. You high five. You (open-mouthed) kiss. You have learned sign language for “more” and “please” and accurately nod your head for “yes” and shake your head for “no.” You flip through books. You dance to music, clapping and shaking your instruments with glee. You close and open doors. You feed yourself with a spoon. And just today, after watching your sister offer her spaghetti sauce covered plate to Ursa after lunch, Daddy found you stumbling across the lawn, dragging an adult sized ceramic plate that you had pulled from the picnic table over to where Ursa was lounging.

You do not miss a thing.

We’ve been on vacation the past two weeks, and thus you have been sleeping in the same room as your Mommy and Daddy. This has made your early morning rising more acute and challenging for your night owl Mama. And yet, when I lazily pull my head from the pillow and catch sight of your beaming, smiling face, I swear that I am filled with the energy and spirit that comes from being a morning person. Your smile competes with the rising sun and I pull you from your crib and into my arms and you bury your face into my chest and we coo and snuggle for a moment of pure bliss.

Oh my sweetheart, I will carry that peace with me for the rest of my life. And I can only hope that you too will one day know such happiness.

Happy First Birthday, Kaki darling.

143 Mama

Month 11

ourtland Whaley, my sweet baby,

Today you are 11 months old. Just one month away from marking your life in years rather than months. And just one month away from your daddy and I marking our sleep deprivation in years rather than months.

Milestones all around!

On the night you were born, you entered the world so quietly and peacefully. You didn’t cry. You were placed on my chest and we enjoyed a minute together in silence and awe before you experimented with the use of your vocal chords.

You have yet to stop experimenting.

We lay in the hospital, in the early hours of the morning of August 11 (as you’d been born mere minutes before midnight on the 10th), listening to you wail and cry and carry on. I distinctly remember looking over at your father and saying, “Holy shit. We’re screwed. How do we make her stop?”

You see, your sister spent the first 48 hours of her life sleeping, and then continued her Olympic snoozing habits upon her arrival home. You, my dear… not so much.

I keep hoping that we’ll see improvement, but last night daddy and I found ourselves lying in bed from 2:30-4am serenaded by those very shrieks and wails and oral protestations that we first heard in those early hours 11 months ago.

I’ve heard many of my friends’ babies cry, and I am always struck by how soothing and relatively peaceful I find their lamentations. It’s as though they’re sobbing, “Oh, excuse me. I’m very unhappy here. Would you mind terribly paying attention to me. Perhaps changing my diaper and filling my belly, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Your cry, on the other hand, is more of a “HEY ASSHOLES! I AM CRYING HERE! THERE ARE MOTHERFUCKING TEARS IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING CRIB! FIX THIS SHIT!”

Who knew a strawberry blonde, milky-skinned baby could feel such kinship with Samuel L. Jackson?

And it’s not just when you are unhappy that you shriek. Oh no, when you are completely blissful you delight in shattering glass with your screams. Last week, promptly following bath time, your most joyous time of day, you lay on your changing table squealing and screaming and mimicking a donkey making love to a feral cat. Not surprisingly, your daddy called up stairs and inquired, “Is everything okay up there?”

Oh just fine. Nothing like a game of peekaboo to inspire our baby to imitate animal porn.

And yet, despite all this noise noise noise noise, you provide us with constant joy and entertainment. The way you wag your head up and down for yes, and ferociously shake side to side for no. The way you quake and shake and wiggle and stomp anytime music hits your ears, namely the Dora The Explorer theme song. The way you hug and snuggle. The way you cruise around the house to stay close to your Mama, and have been adventurous enough to take your first bold, albeit shaky, independent steps. The way you chew your food with your whole head, not just your jaw. The head nod seems to ensure proper maceration. You even drink independently, adeptly cradling your bottle and relaxing into your nap time or bed time routine.

You see, we stopped breastfeeding two weeks ago and my heart hurts just writing that. Admittedly, I’m filled with a mixture of guilt, relief, regret, nostalgia, and FEELINGS about this huge developmental milestone. You and your sister both weened on your own right around 10 months. And while the weening was completely natural and easy and dictated on your terms, I know that it is because of the huge life transitions that we all were facing as a family that caused this self-led weening. For both you and your sister, weening was prompted because of physical moves that put pressure on my time and schedule, and thus limited my time physically present and thus able to breastfeed. I could have continued pumping, and here is where the guilt and feelings of regret come in, but I was too overwhelmed and strapped for time, and so it was far easier and less stressful to stock the house with formula.

Formula. My F word.

I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m still embarrassed anytime I fill a formula bottle in public. As though the entire world is looking at me thinking, “Well look at that mother, poisoning her baby.” Obviously, OBVIOUSLY!, it’s not poison. I drank formula. Your daddy drank formula. Heck, your big sister drank formula for those two months before I transitioned her to whole milk. And we’re all healthy, happy, intelligent people, and yet, the guilt. The shame. The regret. It’s still there. Irrationally there. It’s as though I need a T-shirt that reads, “I breastfed. I swear. Stop judging me! I judge myself enough already!”

It’s not fair that we beat ourselves up like we do, we women, we mothers. And yet, it comes with the territory. I hope it will be different for your generation of women. For you and your sister. I’m doing my best to fight against this guilt and pressure. And I’ll always fight for you.

I know that the hardest part of this past month was not the sleep deprivation or the guilt and regret, but rather the tension of joy and yearning, pride and nostalgia. The acknowledgement that with each shaky step, with each independent bottle, with breastfeeding behind us and a mouth of teeth before us, you are becoming more and more your own amazing little person. And it truly splits my heart in two, one as a mother aching for her innocent newborn and another as a mother filled with dreams for her child.

And that’s exactly as it should be.

I love you, darling. Happy 11 months.

143 Mama

Month 10

anger Baby!

Hey, would you mind sitting down a moment while I share some thoughts on the past month of your life? No? You’re going to bear crawl at the speed of light across the room and then shove small hazardous objects in your mouth while balancing on two legs and attempting to pull large pieces of furniture on top of you? How fun for mom and dad! That’s not nerve wracking in the least! I am really digging these grey-haired highlights.

I’m just going to come out and say it. We’re on Cart Suicide Watch 2012.

What? That’s offensive? I’ve crossed a line? No joking about death in relationship to one’s baby? No suicide jokes?

Look, I’d use a better metaphor if I had one. In fact, I went back in my archives and read the 10 month birthday letter I’d written to Addison to see what analogies I may have made in reference to this developmental stage. And ya know what? In that birthday letter I was raving about Addison’s 12 hour marathon sleep habits and you, Miss Kaki, are in a routine of awaking at 3am and screaming bloody murder until 5:30am. You’ve slept through the night a total of five, that’s one hand, times in your 10 months of life. I’m going to go ahead and use basic SAT reasoning and say that one of these things is not like the other. So any analogies I may have used to describe Sunny’s behavior are just not adequate to capture your extreme, living-on-the-edge approach to life.

I’m making it sound like you’re a little monster. But oh my dear, the flip side to your attempts at finding the most interesting means of taking your own life and the screams that make it sound like we’re sticking needles in your toes in the middle of the night is the most outrageously wacky, joyous, absurd, goofy smiled personality.

You’re a true mimic like your Auntie Kimmy and Doda. You watch our every move and I find you clapping with pride. High fiving. Trying to put the cap back on your cracker container. Loading the kid-sized laundry machine with toys. Offering kissing and hugs and neck nuzzles. Patting the dogs. Crawling in and out of the cardboard house, opening and shutting the door with glee. Waving hello or goodbye. Dancing to any beat that hits your ears. Raspberry-ing food across the room. Weeding the garden. Kicking and splashing in the tub. Flipping through pages in your books.

Girl, you are one smart cookie.

We couldn’t be prouder. Or more overwhelmed.

This has been another wild month, which is why this letter is over four days behind, with my biggest work event and Ursa’s amputation overshadowing many of your amazing developmental milestones. You have two top teeth! You’re eating adult food – scrambled eggs and noodles and raspberries, oh my! You’re standing, unassisted for going on minutes, plural! You take steps when we hold your hands! I fear that you will be toddling boldly around the house by the time I write to you next month.

Perhaps that’s why you gravitate to such extreme behavior. It’s the only way you can compete with all the chaos this household has to offer.

Whatever the reason, I love you all the more for holding your own among the pack. You are you. The youest you. I don’t know how else to describe it. But you are just so you. Unabashedly. Unapologetically. Loudly. Boldly. Determinedly. You.

Sounds like a few other women in this family, eh?

And while you delight in being an extreme yoga baby while nursing during the day (and with the appearance of those new chompers, ouch! Admittedly, we’re nursing less and less), I get moments of utter calm and stillness when we nurse in the evening. Looking back at my Instagram feed from this past month, it is absolutely filled with images of you, nursing, with those stunning, big blue eyes gazing my way.

And, despite all the chaos, that is how I will remember these past four weeks, my love. In fact, that is how I survived these past four weeks. Utterly frozen with disbelief and awe and love for you and those pretty blue eyes.

I’m so glad that you are you. And no one else.

Happy 10 months, my Kaki baby.

143 Mama