Happy birthday, baby.

Dearest Bug,

Your aunt Megan has an American girl doll that looks just like her.  I always sort of wanted one when I was growing up because they even have matching pajamas. They have magazines, you see, where you can pick out all the features for your very own doll with matching outfits and freckles and skin.

One month

Sometimes I envision myself standing in front of a similar catalog, only for my real babies.  If there was such a thing, you are the exact baby I would have chosen.  Round cheeks and chubby fingers.  Long legs with rolly thighs.  Straight, shiny, hair the color of copper in the sun on the top of your head with soft, golden curls in the back.  Huge, merry, starry blue eyes and a sparkling personality to match.  A toothy grin when you wrinkle your nose in delight. 

Two months

You are the exact baby I would have chosen.



Three months

Other times, I like to think that maybe you chose us, too.  That maybe you wanted a dad who could make you laugh all the time with his jokes and silly made up songs.  A daddy who tickles and teases and pokes you until you throw your head back and squeal in frustration, and a daddy who snuggles you and kisses you and loves you.

Four months

Maybe you chose to come to a family with a big, slobbery, floppy-earred dog who licks your face and sniffs at your diapers and otherwise ignores you, but who might be your very best friend in the world someday.

Five months

 Did you pick our family because of all the wonderful Grammys and Nanas and PopPops and Bunks you'd end up with?  Because you wanted lots and lots and LOTS of aunts and uncles to spoil you rotten?  (Because, guess what.  I was at your party.  If that was your plan, you totally nailed it.) 

Six months

Sometimes I wonder if you decided to come to our house, even though it is old and the floors squeak and the doors stick and the windows are ugly.  Did you know that we would paint and scrub and sand to make it nice for you, and succeed only some of the time?  I wonder if you knew it would be messy sometimes, but you picked it anyway.

Seven months

 Sometimes I wonder if you picked our family so I could be your mommy, too.  I don't know if it's true, but on the long days, it helps me a little to think that maybe once upon a time you knew all about what you were getting yourself into.   Maybe you knew that I couldn't be home with you all the time yet, that I'd have to leave you and go to work while someone else fed you applesauce for breakfast.  Did you know that I don't scrapbook or sew, and that I don't own any holiday-themed window clings?  Did you know that I would be so far from the mama that you, my perfect baby, deserve?

Eight months

I'm not sure how it all works, really.  I'm not sure whether you chose me or I chose you, but I have a theory.  Maybe we didn't need to choose each other because we--you and I-- were always connected.  Before and now and forever, we were and are and will be connected to each other.

Ten months

 I am your mama, and you are my baby.  Do you know what that means?  My heart pumped your blood.  You are mine.

Eleven months

And I am yours.

And now you are one.  You are just beginning.  I am so proud of you, and I can't wait to see where we go from here. 

Together.

Happy birthday, baby.  I love you to the moon and back.

-Mama 

PS- Sorry we forgot to take your 9 month picture.  Remember?  You chose me.