First

Happy Birthday, Miles.  Now you are 1.  

Cupcake.

This is officially your second October 11 on this earth.  One year ago yesterday, I got up from bed to pee and my water  broke.  Perching on the toilet and realizing that no one, particularly not a pregnant woman with a bladder the size of a walnut, could pee for that long, I realized what was happening.  I started calling your other mother’s name.  I called and called, but she was deeply asleep and wearing ear plugs.  So I hobbled back to the bedroom, leaking all the way, and shook her awake.  

We could not believe you were finally coming and that you would stop being this abstract source of heartburn and other, less mentionable digestive upsets, and become, for real, a human.   We were stunned, disoriented, and a little giddy.  (We still are, come to think of it.)

Early labor: still smiling.

One year ago today, after 18 hours of (mostly unmedicated) labor, a lot of very deep breaths, and a last-minute trip to the operating room, we met you for the first time.  I’ve written about that moment before.  It remains the most transformative moment of my life. 

From the beginning, you were yourself.  I’m not quite sure how else to put it, but if you ever have children you’ll know what I mean.  This probably sounds dumb to you now, reading this years later, but you were a person from the very first moment your Momma held you to my cheek.  You came fully formed, with likes and dislikes and mannerisms and tendencies and your own particular way of approaching situations.  These twelve months we’ve sat back and marveled at who you are, watching you unfurl.

So very little.

At the time of your birth you were so very new, and these were your chief accomplishments: possessing all the necessary extremities, making profound facial expressions, and sporting a head of tufted reddish hair that made the nurses exclaim.  Yet though you could not move or talk and would not have a name for a day or so, you were you.  You were already the person who now wakes from a nap pointing and asking, “Dat?”, who rewards us with crooked smiles, who chased pigeons while gripping one of our fingers for balance, and who touches new things delicately, with the tip of one pointed finger.  You’re calm, observant, gentle, mischievous, and affectionate.  You love food and wind in your hair and pointing at airplanes and being tossed up and down.

Momma.

Tonight, after your bath, we were wriggling you into your pajamas.  You kept smiling at the yellow ducks on your pajama pants, charming us.  Your Momma said, “One year ago today, you were in my arms.”  She got to hold you and gaze blissfully at your face in the recovery room while the doctors put my guts back in and stitched me up.   The two of you talked of many things; I bet she’ll tell you about it if you ask her. 

One year contains wholeness — every season, every month, and every day.  Like you, it is a template with reassuring solidity, yet it contains infinite future variations.   Who will you be as your Novembers and Februaries and Fourths of July pile up?  Very likely, you will be calm, observant, gentle, mischievous and affectionate.   You will get over your passion for airplanes, and your vocabulary, currently comprising three sparkling, jewel-like words, will grow.  (Your three words are cat, bye-bye, and truck.)  You will speak in sentences.  You will walk without holding on — maybe even tomorrow.   You will also surprise us, awe us, terrify us. 

This year was not easy for me in particular, perhaps because the stakes seemed so high.  I was supposed to keep you alive, for gosh sake, and fatten you up and lure you into sleep and stop you from bashing your head on the furniture and let you explore.   At times I was absolutely dizzy with worry.  This year was also beautiful.  We love you madly, Miles.  We’re absolutely, terribly smitten with you.  Just when we think you couldn’t get more lovely, you astound us with unimaginable levels of delectability and genius.

Already ancient.

Happy birthday, dear one.  Happy first, and welcome to your second year.

Birthday morning.

 

Gotta be me.