Impermanence

Dear Adeline,

The other night as I was putting you to bed, after I had nursed you and gave you a bottle, you rolled to your side and curled up against me. You nestled your head against my chest so that your ear was directly over my heart and sucked your thumb as I rocked you, back and forth, back and forth, until you drifted off to sleep.

This was in contrast to our more typical bedtime routine, which, to parrot a greeting card, is less like a Johnson and Johnson commercial, and more like wrestling a 20-pound bag of snakes. Usually, you flail around while I'm feeding you. You alternate between nursing and sitting bolt upright to check out your surroundings before settling back in to nurse. Three seconds later, you're sitting up again, just to be sure that you didn't miss something, like maybe an errant choking hazard that has wandered into your field of view for you to lunge at and put in your mouth.

With the bottle, you're constantly thrashing from side to side, smacking the side of the bottle with your hand, pulling it out of your mouth, inspecting it, and grabbing for it again. All the while, you kick your right leg rhythmically. After you finish the bottle, I shift positions to coax a burp out of you (which is more like waiting for you to belch in my face), and you bounce up and down enthusiastically on my lap, while batting at the back of the rocking chair.

Suffice it to say that I was surprised on the night you actually fell asleep in my arms. You flashed me the sweetest grins as your eyelids started to droop, and I thought, "This is a moment I want to remember forever."

There have been lots of those moments during your short lifetime. It's so easy to take joy in the nooks and crannies of your existence: the exuberant squawks, the cheerful babbling, the way you gently headbutt people when you're trying to be funny, your delighted clapping for minutes on end...

I could go on. And on, and on.

But here's what I realized that same night as I scrambled in my mind to record every last sensation of holding you in my arms while you slept: that moment would pass. And so would the next warm moment, and the less pleasant one after that. (You do have your less pleasant moments, by the way. But everyone does.)

Our lives are just a series of moments, strung together one after the other. And all of them are bound to end. All of them are impermanent.

It's natural to want to cling to the good and pleasurable moments, and to push away from the painful and uncomfortable ones. When it feels like everything is going wrong, people tell us, "This too shall pass." And it's true. But I think it's just as important to remember that the good will pass as surely as the bad. It's the act of trying desperately to hold on to the good, and only the good, that can make life so difficult sometimes.

As you make your way in the world, this is something I hope to impart: that no matter how difficult (or how ebullient) this moment may seem, a new moment will follow soon after. It is a wonderful skill to be able to hold all of the moments in our lives lightly, neither grasping for them, nor pushing them away. It's a lifelong practice, to be sure. (I'm practicing it right now, as I bemoan the winter storm that's supposed to push through tonight.)

Love,

Mama

 Who wouldn't want to hold on to this moment?

 You're not always going to be so boring and philosophical, right mom?

Uh Oh

Dear Adeline,

So, some time has passed since I wrote my last post here. Something like four months, but who's keeping track of these things? Ahem.

You were born squarely in the age of Facebook and Instagram, of Twitter and Pinterest. Who knows if these things will still be in existence by the time you're old enough to read this letter. But for now, the norm, the standard we've all become accustomed to is instant oversharing of the minutiae of life. What did you have for breakfast? Post a picture on Instagram. With whom are you in a relationship? No one, if it's not "Facebook official." And so it goes that much of the documenting of your life thus far hasn't happened in written form - it's been in pictures and captions and comments on various social media platforms.

I'll admit that it's been difficult to keep up with blogging all of the amazing changes you've been cruising through in your typical ho-hum fashion. There are a lot of days when I drift off to sleep thinking that I need to write about the way that you spit like a camel, or how your whole face lights up when your brother enters the room. But then sleep takes over, and before I know it, time has slipped out from under me again.

You've been sitting up on your own for the past few weeks. You're still not so much a fan of rolling over, or spending any time on your stomach at all, really. Now and then I fret silently about whether you're meeting the appropriate developmental milestones, but in the grand scheme of things, your dad and I have always had the sense that you will be just fine. Whether that's your temperament or our maturation as parents remains to be seen, I suppose.

There are still so many moments I want to capture. The way that you shriek gleefully for ten minutes after I've put you down for a nap before conking out. Your new habit of pushing your tongue in and out, like a little lizard. Your face lights up now when I come home from work and peer at you from the front entryway. You have no idea how my heart sings to see the tentative, then full on smile that washes over you when I walk through the door.

I call you monkey, though I don't even know where that nickname came from. I suppose I called your brother monkey too. I still call you squishy. Also gorgeous, and Baby A, and amazing baby. You're starting to recognize your name. You smile sometimes when I say Adeline or Adi. After a moment's pause, a slow grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, as if you're recalling fond memories of an old friend.

Most nights before bed, I sing Billy Joel's Lullaby to you. The last verse is the one I like the most:

Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream
And dream how wonderful your life will be
Some day your child may cry
And if you sing this lullaby
Then in your heart, there will always be a part of me

I don't really have a tidy ending to all of this reminiscing. There used to be a time when I would read and re-read everything I wrote, to make sure that I had every last letter in the right place, that every image I tried to evoke with words was picture perfect, that every sentence conveyed just the right sentiment. I'm realizing as time goes by, as you're growing up before me, that getting it just right isn't the important thing. Just getting it down is. So I will keep trying.

Love,

Mama

Sisyphus Ain't Got Nothing on Me

Dear Adeline,

You just turned three months old several days ago. I'm pretty sure some kind of warping of space-time has occurred, because last I remember, you looked like this:

Peanut Butter

I called you peanut butter for a couple of weeks because you were so unbelievably tiny (like a peanut), and so squishy (like peanut butter).

And now, well, take a look:

Squishy Baby

You've grown your way out of two sizes of clothes already. You're so much more alert, and give the cutest smiles. And just two or three days ago, you started cooing - to other people, to yourself, and most often, to these guys, your carseat BFFs:

Endlessly Fascinating Friends

I could probably wax philosophical about how it all goes so quickly (because it does), but today I want to tell you about what it's like to be your parent. Lest it sound like I'm complaining below, know this: being your parent is the most amazing thing ever. I'm especially fond of the way you seem to reserve your biggest smiles for me (don't tell daddy). I know that's probably as much about you associating me with, you know, lunch, as it is about any kind of special mother-daughter bond, but I'll take it.

Especially in light of the day-to-dayness of this whole parenting gig. Being a parent of an infant, I've decided, is the ultimate Sisyphean task. Feed you, change your diaper, mop up spit up, change your clothes, change my clothes, change more diapers, pace until you fall asleep, throw in some laundry, feed you, etc., etc. There's a certain homogeneity among our days together. Even the unpredictable is pretty predictable, if only in the sense that I know you're going to catch me off guard in some way, even if I don't know exactly how.

(Today it was the six or seven times you released a not unsubstantial waterfall of partially digested milk all over me and you and whatever we happened to be standing next to at the time. If that sounds gross, it's because it is, but it's also just part and parcel of the day. You also might think I would have been a little quicker on the uptake and had a burp cloth stashed on my person at all times, but you'd be wrong.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, Sisyphus. I read an essay the other day that contrasted the "jobs" that go along with parenting with the relationship among parents and children. The gist of it was that nobody signs up to be a parent because they really, really like doing the same things over and over, only to have those very things undone, which necessitates them being carried out yet again. For instance, I put you down for a nap, and you wake up five minutes later (not even kidding). I somewhat grudgingly pick you back up when you start becoming more vocal about your discontent and we recommence rocking-pacing-singing-nursing-bouncing. Good times.

But here's the thing: parents put up with the "jobs" of parenting because the relationships they get to have with their kids are mind-blowingly amazing. It's true! You haven't even been around all that long, in the grand scheme of things, but from the moment you arrived, I reconnected with this heady mix of love and amazement and gratitude so powerful it left me a little breathless. There was fear in there too, honest fear that comes with the knowledge that I'll screw up as your mom more times than I can count. But on fear's heels is also hope and confidence that we'll be able to repair the screw-ups and forge ahead.

I'm going back to work in just a few days. Even though I sometimes feel bogged down in the minutiae of raising you (and I cannot emphasize enough how much I wish you would nap!), I don't yet feel ready to pawn those jobs off to someone else if it means I'll also be missing out on the good stuff. Somehow, amidst all of the mind-numbing repetition, you've hooked me. You've hooked me good.

Maybe I was wrong about parenting being a Sisyphean task. Poor Sisyphus didn't get any sort of ancillary benefits from rolling that rock around. If changing your diaper means I also get to know you and see you develop into yourself, so be it. (Also: one last plug for a nap without being plastered against me in some form, okay?)

Love,

Mama

Sleep Screams

Dear Adeline,

Somehow the past month slipped under the radar and all of a sudden you're six weeks old. It's already hard to remember what life was like without you (with the exception of the more than three consecutive hours of sleep I got before you arrived).

Speaking of sleep, let it go on record that you are the noisiest sleeper ever. There's an episode of The Simpsons (your dad's favorite show - I'm sure he'll show you the DVD's someday) that features a creature called the "screamerpillar." Homer squishes the indefatigable screaming bug, which just happens to be a protected species. An undercover EPA officer arrives on the scene and demands to know why the screamerpillar is no longer screaming. Homer claims the screamerpillar is sleeping, to which the officer retorts, "Then why don't I hear any sleep screams?"

All of that was a very long preamble to describe what you sound like when you sleep. At night, your dad and I lie in bed and listen to you start your regular grunting chorus from your adjoining bassinet. As you bellow in a tone and pitch not dissimilar from what I imagine sumo wrestlers to sound like, Daddy often turns to me and asks, "Is Adi awake, or are those just sleep screams?" From the night you were born, it's been difficult to tell if you're awake and disgruntled or just bleating in your sleep.

Even as I write this (at 4 am), you're chuffing away in your bassinet, and I'm waiting for your breathing to slow and your, um, vocalizations to quiet down. Your dad could sleep through a freight train passing six feet from the window. It takes a good, sharp poke to wake him up (I say this from experience). I, on the other hand, am a much lighter sleeper. Which is good for you from the whole needing to eat in the middle of the night standpoint. Not so good for me from the being well-rested enough to remember what I'm doing when I walk from one room to another standpoint. I've already forgotten the main point of this post.

But you're cute, in your sleep screamy way, so I guess I can overlook the mind numbing fatigue you cause.

I seem to have run out of coherent dialog, and you're finally quiet, so I think it's time to wrap this up. And that's going to be about as good as it gets in the way of a conclusion to this letter, because I'm ready to zzzzzzzzzzzz...

Love,

Mama

Second

Dear Adeline,

Given your position in the family, it was inevitable that sooner or later you'd be compared to your brother. I just didn't realize how soon. I suppose it actually started when I was still pregnant. When he was a wee bean, Bryson made me queasy throughout the day. You, on the other hand, made me throw up more evenings than not for several months. Everyone told me that was a sure sign you were a girl.

So far you've been a pretty sleepy kid, content to nurse, doze, and repeat. You let me put you down when you nod off, whereas your brother wanted to be held 24/7. Your dad and I have our fingers crossed that you will remain a "good sleeper." Bry, well, let's just say it took him awhile to figure out the whole sleeping through the night thing.

But here's the thing: you are obviously going to be your own person, no matter how you compare with your brother. He's been our only reference point for what it means to be parents. Being second means that you might end up with the short end of the stick at times as your dad and I work to learn about who you are in your own context. Making the comparisons is reflexive; looking past them will be our ongoing challenge.

We promise to do our best.

Love,

Mama

You make Bry look like a giant.

First

Dear Adeline,

Today I gave you your first bath. And thus began the series of firsts that you will experience over your lifetime. First steps, first day of school, first kiss, first heartbreak. If your first bath is any indicator of how future firsts will go, there will be uncertainty, confusion, acclimation, quiet enjoyment, then lots of noise, a nap following, and someone there to guide you through all of it. Your father, brother, and I are lucky to be your guides for these first firsts. We'll be here for the later ones if you need us too.

Love,

Mama

This is the life.

Welcome Adeline!

Dear Adeline,

Your father has been very concerned about equity, and wanted to make sure that I chronicled your first year or so in the same way I did for your brother. So here it is, your very own blog. Some day, say about 13 years from now, you will probably be appalled that I documented things like the way you flail your limbs as if you're attempting to swim on land and your propensity for pooping as soon as your diaper is removed. Or maybe you'll be delighted. Probably appalled, though.

At any rate, I know that I don't want to forget the way you purse your lips and furrow your brow in a quizzical pout. Or your quiet, wide-eyed gaze, which is often directed toward my face. And also the wall.

Your daddy will want to remember the way you bust out of every swaddle he tries to put you in. And Bryson will be reminded that he wanted to name you Lucy. Now that you've arrived, he calls you dime, because you're so little.

You're not yet two weeks old, and though you sleep approximately 22 hours a day, there's already so much to keep track of. I'm sure that all of it will be fodder to be shared with future crushes, and will elicit your clenched-teeth protests to stop embarrassing you. I can't wait!

Love,

Mama

I sleep a lot.