Wednesday, February 3, 2010
So, life has really gotten away from me this month, my dear, TT. Especially, now that I realize we're in February. Upon the new year, I had so many T-centric plans: Finish your first and second year photo albums; find a preschool; write you a love letter at least once a month. . . . Well, the albums are still sitting in a closet; pictures still need to be ordered. A preschool still hasn't been found. And, the blog, well . . . hasn't been blogged. And, the guilt surfaces. . . I'm not doing enough. T-school, dance class, park time, zoo visit, insert random activity here, didn't happen because I ran out of time, or I was sick, or tired, or a number of other things. And, through my guilt, and trying to get stuff done, you were calling for me: "Mommy, I go hide now." "Just a minute," I said. (Sometimes, I say that too often.) And then my heart caught up with me-- in that moment, I realized, I'm so busy creating memories for you that I'm not savoring the little things that truly make up all that is a good childhood. I always say, ". . . it goes by too fast; I need to remember this moment." Yet, I often forget, and get so caught up in the stress of what needs to be done. It's not about the photo albums, the blogs, etc., for you to view as an adult that serve as proof for your good childhood; it's being truly present in your life now that creates memories for you to behold later. . . hopefully, treasure. And, that's a lesson I learned from you, my wise two-year-old.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
So far, I've had the privilege of spending three Christmases with you, my sweet-T. Our first Christmas was momentous, of course, because I finally had you in my life. And, at almost four-months-old, you and I were really getting on swimmingly. Meeting Santa for the first time left you slightly stunned and a bit rattled, but we got our picture. The mark of the second Christmas season was special because you became a little being that walked, talked, and most of all laughed a giggle that should be branded for all to hear. Of course, Santa Clause was not a fellow you enjoyed meeting, but, again, we got our picture. This year, however, all that changed when Santa presented you with a candy cane--and, you and the red-suited guy became fast friends. You told him secrets, sat on his lap, and even gave him a hug! We got our picture(s)! This is the Christmas in which you have learned traditions that will live on: We decorate the whole house in Christmas trimmings--including putting a wreath on the front door. Reading Christmas stories every night before bedtime has been 'especially fine' as you always recognize and point out, Santa, tree, lights, presents, reindeer, and all sorts of holiday-isms. Hearing, you exclaim, "Happy Birthday, Jesus," has made this year the one to beat. I love how Dada has been outlining Santa's visit to our home: He travels down our chimney (thank goodness we have a fireplace), retrieves all of your presents from his toy sack, and arranges them around our tree. And, after that arduous task, he eats the cookies and drinks the milk we have set out for him. And, boy, did he eat those cookies and drink that milk. . . barely a crumb was left and not even a sip of milk to be had! Christmas morning involved a daunting assignment . . . you had presents upon presents to open. I enjoyed watching you unwrap each present carefully, and then shout, "WOW!" And, to think the fun didn't stop at our house! Santa stopped at Grandma and Papa's house, and dropped off more presents; hence, the process begins again. . . oh, to be two again! The perspective of Christmas for me and Dada has been altered forever; we live the holidays through your eyes. At the end of Christmas Day, I turned to Dada, and asked, "Can it get any better than this?" Dada replied, "I don't know; how could it get any better?" How could it really get any better? Indeed. . .
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Lately, I've been more aware of time. . .and, the cliche couldn't be more true: It goes by in a blink. So, armed with my latest revelation, I've decided, dearest TT, to take mental snapshots of images that, because of their goodness, only last minutes. Images of you that make my heart gasp, and cause me to contemplate all the ways in which I am deeply blessed. Mind you, these are not images that can be captured with a camera--oh no, they would be lost in a time machine with a camera. These images can only be captured through the senses and living in the present. Here are some of my mental snapshots of you:
1. Sitting on It's a Small World (the ride), and wanting you so badly to enjoy the holiday edition of this special attraction, only to realize you have settled into my lap to take a much needed snooze. Instead of paying attention to the ride on a boat, I'm soaking in the preciousness of holding my toddler on my lap. It doesn't happen often, and I'm guessing that as you get older, the days of you sleeping in my arms are numbered.
2. The expression on your face riding a train for the first time by yourself with mama and dada cheering you on. We, of course, screaming like crazy folk trying to get your attention, and you displaying a half-smirk smile commingled with embarrassment. Priceless. . . and the epitome of foreshadowing.
3. The sound of your raucous laughter when dada makes, "Froggy go bounce." Your giggles are sunshine in a glass, and I often wonder how I can forever hold on to that wondrous toddler laugh.
4. The look of surprise when the song starts and stops in music class. Four weeks into the class, and it still seems unforeseen. You gasp with such excitement; you create a perfect surprise circle with your mouth. You have the most personality of all the other children in the class. I'm completely unbiased.
5. One of the many special treasures of you is the joy you have every time we meet after a lapse in time. To hear, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," is an exclamation that I hope to hear for a lifetime. . .
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Ah. . . the two's. We meet each other at this road, dear T. You are the diamond in which every parent dreams. You have personality that is so untethered and pure. Sometimes, when you're still in your crib, waking up for the day, I listen intently to the beautiful sound of your chatter. "Hi Mama. Dada work. Bye. Mwah." "No, mine," is ever so popular between you and your crib companions. "Dada, I want balloon," Mmmm, Dada, popcorn. Yummmmmeee!" are just some of your declarations. And, as wonderful as those conversations are, nothing compares to your kisses, hugs, and T-isms. A few examples are: After I swaddle and present you with your baby dolls, you shower them with kisses and loves. It's a sweetness that makes me giddy anytime I witness it. When I ask you, "How do you smile for GG?" The performance queen emerges; you tip your head back, crinkle your half-moon eyes, and grin the toothiest grin you've ever seen. The latest T-ism is a demand that mama and dada are more than happy to oblige: "Hurry, Mama, Dada, hurry! Snuggle with me, pleeeeaaaase!" Oh, how I cherish these smiles, these giggles, and everything in between. . .
Thursday, September 24, 2009
"It's Happy Birthday Day". . . those four words would forever change my life--our life. I wasn't expecting you on that Tuesday morning in August. Just the evening before, Dr. Linzey had determined that you were still content to room in your first home for a few more days. You see, you were inked to be born on Friday, August 31st, 2007. Although, there were signs that, perhaps, my accommodations were not the Four Seasons--sadly, more like a Super 8 motel. You weren't growing as well as we hoped; your heart rate was dipping dangerously low at those fun non-stress tests, and worry was in the air. Well, on that 28th day of August, your heart rate was decelerating lower than it had before, more like plummeting to about 60 BPM. It was so frightening to think that just when I was so close to meeting you . . . you may not. . . ; well, I won't sully my first letter to you with morose thoughts. So, yes, your heart rate was dropping to 60-70 BPM, but then just like the lively girl you are today, your heart rate would then climb back up to the normal 150 BPM. Even in the womb, dear T, you made your spirited nature known. You would kick at all times of the day; you had hiccups constantly, and I would never let you rest. With my constant doppler use, the incessant tests and doctor appointments, I wonder if you were ever able to relax at all in your Super 8 room. Nevertheless, even with your fighting spirit, it was time for you to be born according to a nurse and Dr. Linzey that day. You were born via cesarean section-not what I wanted necessarily; yet, with all the mounting issues both you and I were experiencing, a c-section was the way to go. As they were operating on me to get to you, Daddy was sitting next to me, holding my hand. He said I held on so tight. . . tight because it was surgery, of course; very tight because I was praying and hoping you would be born alive and well. The surgery was a blur, but the words right before they called your time of birth were not: " Wow, Dr. Linzey, you weren't kidding, this baby is so high up there." I still don't know what they meant by, "so high up there." Up where? Hmmm. . . . Dr. Linzey then said, "Well, this is a definitely a girl." The nurse took you quickly, and I peeked over to see you. Only a peek because I was so wrought with fear. The nurse brought you over to the scale and the Neonatologist joined her. You had swallowed meconium and they needed to get all that unsavory stuff out of your lungs. They motioned to Daddy to come over and see you; Daddy looked at you with the most adoring eyes I had ever seen. He looked at me and gave me a thumbs up, and I knew at that point that we had a baby. . . you. . . beautiful T. All the woes, anxiety, fears, I had were gone. Jubilation had taken over in its place. The nurse wrapped you tightly and brought you over to me. I said, "Can I kiss her?" "Of course, you can. She's your baby." My baby. My baby. My baby. The words consumed me as I kissed your little forehead. I still remember that face; the face that Daddy saw in a dream, and the face that made all my dreams come true.
Labels: The Beginning. . .