Jun 28, 2011 23:46
Dear Hazel,
Tomorrow you will be one year old. To me, though, it feels like this is your birthday. Last year, on Father’s Day, you were born. I’ve been told it was a drizzly wet day like today is, but honestly, I don’t remember a thing about the weather. What I do remember is holding you and saying “I love you, I love you, I love you” over and over. And I remember learning I had a daughter, and I remember calling you Hazel. It felt awkward that first time.
Now, though, I say Hazel a hundred times a day, in a hundred different ways. You are the center of our lives and we are so glad you’re ours.
The big news is that you can walk now. You started by demanding we hold your hands and walk you around, the yard was your favorite training ground. We spent one especially memorable evening walking endless laps. Your papa held one hand and I held the other. You were so happy. You took big, marching, stomping baby steps and smiled nonstop.
You still like to walk holding hands. You prefer one person on each side. The way you hold out your hand, imploring, is impossible to resist.
Soon after that you started taking real steps. One at first and then two. And then, one evening while Michelle was visiting you really went for it. You had a measuring cup in each hand and that distracted you enough to let you walk half way across the kitchen. We cheered. And then I groaned a little because I know what we’re in for.
In addition to walking you’ve learned other exciting skills. You have figured out step stools. I’m not really excited about this particular milestone. I was grudgingly impressed, though, the first time you pushed the stool to the counter, calmly climbed up and began reaching for anything you could find: knives, cups, cutting board.
The step stool now lives upside down under the baby gate, because you’re learned to climb under the gate and escape the safe living room. It’s working. For now. I have a feeling, though, that we’re going to need a more complex solution soon.
You’ve also learned how to open the screen door. In fact, you learned that on the same day you demonstrated your skill with the step stool. I was in the kitchen, heard a small noise and discovered you cheerfully climbing down the stairs. You looked up at me happily as if to say “Look, Mama! I’m free! I’m going to eat rocks and look at the chickens!”
I joined you outside. You watched the chickens, but I think I was able to intercept most of the rocks before you ate them.
We’ve been working on getting a bedtime routine with you. Bedtime can be torture and we’ve been trying to calm it down a bit. Part of the routine is your papa taking you upstairs and reading to you. Lately, he’s reading Stephen King’s “The Dome.” He censors the swear words. I find this unbearably adorable. I also love that he reads to you. I hope you grow up loving to be read to. I imagine us, a few years from now, both begging Papa for one more story.
Speaking of reading, a few days ago you did something that melted me completely. You brought me a book and crawled into my lap. It was “Curious George” and I read it several times. Then we read a few more books. And you cuddled in my lap, listened and helped me turn the pages. Hazel, I dreamt of that moment long before you were born. And it was perfect.
You really enjoy the “Busy Monkeys” book. It has a picture of monkeys on each page doing something. “Monkey yelling. Monkey smelling.” “Monkey slurping. Monkey burping.” You like that last one, it makes you squeal. You’re also all about the zoo book right now, and I love pointing at all the animals while you alternately cuddle against me and turn the pages.
So, I got off topic. I was talking about sleep. Sleep, every parent’s dream and nightmare. We’re working on getting a better sleep routine for you. I’ve been using the rocking chair a lot more. I often nurse you in it, and then when you’re nearly asleep, plop you up on my chest and rock with you. I love these moments. You melt into my chest, with your arms and legs all rubbery.
One morning, I was cuddling you in the rocking chair. It was inhumanely early and I was trying to soothe you back to sleep. I was wearing a cuddly red robe. You were snuggled against my chest, with your head under my chin. You were warm and soft and sweet. You were sucking on your fingers. I was thinking to myself “this is lovely. In fact, it’s almost perfect.” And, in that moment, you puked in my hair.
Another morning, possibly the same morning, you were fighting sleep at 4 a.m. Your papa was up with you, holding you, soothing you and singing to you. I suggested (in my mind I remember asking nicely, but remember that part about 4 a.m.?) that he sing a softer song.
“Honey,” he said, “I’m not a jukebox.”
Oh, right.
When you’re papa sings you songs, they are invariably upbeat. Even if he sings quietly, his songs sound happy. He’s like that, Hazel, and you’re lucky. I’m lucky, too.
More than a year ago, before you were born, Suzanne told me at my baby shower “The days are long but the years are short.” And at the time it struck me as so powerfully sweet and true. And here, a year later, it’s even sweeter and truer.
Some of our days are long. I try, though, every day to remember that. To pause. To think. To savor. To smell the top of your head and kiss your toes. To feel how you feel at that exact moment, because you’ll never be this small again. And you’re already so big.
Hazel, this year has been amazing, intense and brilliant. You made me a mother, and I am awed by how powerful that is. I will try to live up to that all my life.
You are my Hazelnut.
Love,
Mama