a letter to volcano on her first birthday

Dear Volcano,

It’s October, which means you are almost a year old. If you’d been born on your due date you would be one already. Your duedate was my first day not going to work last year. Instead of getting on the train to go to school, I walked all the way around prospect park. It took me an hour and a half to do the whole 3.5 miles. The sky was clear blue, the trees were just starting to turn red, and I was thinking what a nice time of year it was to be born.

It was actually two more weeks before you were born, and it would’ve been longer if we had left it up to you. I don’t know much about what the weather was like on that day. It looked sunny through the hospital windows. When our midwife arrived in the middle of the night she was wearing a little short-sleeved shirt, so I think it must have been warm out. When we took you to see your pediatrician for the first time one week later, it was cold. I didn’t have many warm clothes for you so I put a too-big fleece sweatshirt on you and wrapped you in two blankets for the walk over.

It was viciously, bitterly cold for the next five months. I bought a little space heater for the apartment to make sure you stayed warm. We used to sit on the floor while I changed your diaper with the warm air blowing on us. You would look around and kick your legs up and down. You’ve always had such long, lean legs. Even when you were a tiny baby who could barely move, your legs looked like they belonged to a teenage track star, or a ballerina. When we brought you to school for the first time and our principal saw you standing on a lab bench, she said you were a “perfectly proportioned little human” — you never seemed to have the stumpy legs or fat rolls that most babies do.

I loved our winter together before I went back to work. I had been prepared for newborn parenting to be incredibly difficult, but it wasn’t at all. I had read all these things — in books or blogs or lists titled “27 things every parent has felt but was afraid to say” that people posted and reposted on Facebook — that had conditioned me to think the first three months of your life would be a painful slog. I was expecting to be so tired I didn’t feel human. I was expecting to experience moments of regret over irrevocably changing my life by having a baby. I was prepared for moments of disliking you or not knowing what to do with you, and I was going to tell myself it was normal. But none of that happened. I have no doubt that it IS normal, and if you ever have a baby and feel unhappy or overwhelmed by parenting, I hope I’ll be there to help you and tell you that it’s okay to feel how you feel. But I also want you to know that when you were a newborn, we were incredibly happy together. I was tired sometimes, but all I really had to do was snuggle you and nurse you all day long — I didn’t mind being a little sleepy. You cried sometimes, but it was always easy to soothe you with bouncing or nursing. You were a wonderful newborn and you have been a wonderful baby all year. You gave me a sweet, easy, blissful introduction to parenthood and I’ll always love that about you, even when you become more difficult or contentious. (When does that happen? Three? Seven? Thirteen? Sometimes I wonder if those future difficult phases will be just as overhyped as the newborn time was, but I’m prepared for something a little bumpier, I promise. You don’t always have to be sweet and easy.)

I don’t want you to read this in the future and think you were a quiet, placid baby. Not at all. You didn’t sit around sleeping or lie contented in a bouncy seat on your own. You have demanded engagement and stimulation from pretty much the moment you opened your eyes. You are intense, expressive, celebratory. You delight in the world. When you were tiny, you loved to look at your black and white fish drawing. You would shiver with paroxysms of glee as you looked at him, wiggling your whole body from your shoulders to your toes as you smiled. (That fish was the first thing you smiled at, right after you turned one month old. Yiayia said the first thing I smiled at was also a drawing, so I wasn’t offended.) Now that you are older, you are constantly moving, joking, laughing, careening around the world like a happy little pinball.

So you are demanding, but easy. You don’t speak many words, but you communicate. You don’t walk, but you race. (Well, that’s not entirely true. You do walk; you took your first independent steps a looooong time ago, back when you were nine months old. But your balance isn’t great and you choose to crawl, cruise, hold hands, or drive your pushcart most of the time.) You are picky, but voracious. You are not what I expected, but you are everything I wanted.

ASL sign for mama

Posted October 14th, 2015 in volcano.

One comment:

  1. rabi:

    (for anyone keeping track, today is actually volcano’s second birthday. but I realized I wasn’t even sure where I saved this thing I wrote last year, so I thought I should put it somewhere I would be able to find more easily.)