Dear Owen,
Tomorrow, you will be 12 weeks old. Does that mean 3 months? Or are you 3 months on November 14 since you
were born on August 14? These are the
burning questions I have.
Anyway, you've been around for 12 weeks now and I figured
it was finally time to write you a letter telling you what life is like these
days from my perspective. Letters to you
at 4 weeks and 8 weeks were written in my head, consisting mostly of sentence
fragments and profanities, so let's just be thankful those never made it onto
paper, for posterity's sake. We
shouldn't pass bad grammar on to future generations. They'll have enough to worry about, like can
you even imagine how expensive gas will be for them?!?
Currently, you are sleeping in your crib at our little
cozy house on Parkside Drive. I tried to
nap, too, but you put a swift end to that after about 40 minutes because I
guess you were hungry? Or today is a
local election day...maybe you had political opinions you felt compelled to
express at the top of your lungs in the language only you understand? You settled back down after a brief snack and
are currently snoozing away again. It's
raining outside, which sort of ruins my aspirations for an afternoon walk
around the block. What a relief!
These days, you are about 17 pounds, which apparently is
a lot for someone your age. Having no
frame of reference, it seems perfectly normal to me, but people are impressed
by your girth. You are starting to hold
your head up better every day, and you've mostly stopped smacking yourself in
the face randomly with your hands. From
a personal entertainment perspective, that's sort of disappointing for me, but
probably better for us all in the long run.
Sometimes I watch you as you stare very seriously and intently at your
little balled up fist. Yes, son, that is
your hand. You control it. And you better not use it to launch any nuclear
weapons, EVER, young man.
You are rapidly growing out of your 3-month clothes. On to the more sophisticated stylings of the
6-month designers, I guess.
You've still got that strawberry blonde hair that makes
people swoon. It's starting to get
longer and the color hasn't changed yet.
If we discover in a few years that your hearing is damaged, we will be
able to directly attribute it to the squeals of people exclaiming over your
hair. It is pretty darn cute, as are
your dimples. DIMPLES! Blame your father, and promise to use the
power of the dimples for good and never for evil. The power you possess is astounding.
Your sleeping could be better, quite frankly. Not to be critical, but seriously? You are HUGE (see above paragraph) and yet
you can't quite manage to drop the feeding that happens nightly between 2:30 -
3:30 am. Do you know what a gut-punch it
is to be awoken by a scream at that hour?
And every night? Come on,
buddy. You can sleep through. I know you can. We even started serving your highness rice
cereal each evening when you were 10 weeks old in hopes that the extra calories
would hold you over, or at least plug you up (excuse the crassness, but it's
true. We were trying to constipate you.)
enough to get you through the night. No
luck yet, but I'm still hopeful. If
you're reading this in 2033 and you still wake up nightly for a snack at 3am, I
might suggest that you seek medical help.
And get some for me while you're at it.
My arrival on the motherhood scene has been rocky. More of a good stumble-around than a
waltz. I've often felt like one of those
cartoon characters who wanders around confused only to step on the business end
of a rake and knock themselves senseless with the rake handle. Again.
Think less "synchronized swimming" and more "desperate,
flailing doggie paddle." That will
give you the visual of how gracefully I've stepped into the role of being your
mother. I often wonder if all new
mothers feel this way, certain that any sort of camaraderie would be impossible
to find. Why don't more new mothers
share what it's really like? Oh,
yeah...they're too busy shaking the cobwebs and trying to decide between eating
a sandwich or grabbing a 20 minute nap. "Telling what it's really like"
falls into last place on the long to-do list.
I love you so deeply it surprises me every single
day. In the past 12-weeks/3-months, you
have grown and changed before our very eyes, in ways that are obvious and
ridiculous and so fun to celebrate and commemorate. I have grown and changed, too, but in ways
that are less amazing and awe-inspiring.
And for all the crying and grunting and sighing and hitting yourself in
the face that you've done, I can say with certainty that you've handled growth
during this time better than I have. You
have exposed the most selfish parts of me, and challenged my regimented,
controlling nature. Your little life
continues to inspire deep and powerful questions for me about my own life and
how I might embrace this call to be more flexible, less self-centered, and more
willing to welcome change into my world.
Also, I think a couple of solid, 4-hour blocks of sleep
might help sort it out, too. Or maybe a
couple of face punches?
The first time we took you to the pediatrician, you were 5
days old, and our #1 concern was that you would only sleep if you were being
held by someone. We were on the verge of
panic. How could this be? What should we do, doctor? What should we do? "Hold him," the doctor replied. He went on to remind us how new you
were. How big and wide and overwhelming
your world was for you. How important
comfort and security and warmth and closeness were to you. So we did.
We held you. And eventually you
transitioned to sleeping ON us, to sleeping in your car seat, and then from the
car seat to the crib, where you lay right now as I type this. And while I'm so very glad you can sleep on
your own, unattended, now, I also desperately hope that you never lose your
need for comfort and security and warmth and closeness. I hope those things are part of who you are,
and that you will give them away to humanity as quickly as you receive
them. Just not to any girls just yet,
ok? Not for another 916-weeks/216-months. Give or take.
It's the dimples, man. I'm
concerned about the dimples.
In your early days and still now, your dad and I peer
down at your little face as you sleep and before long, one of us whispers
quietly, 'we got the best one.' Like we're
on the lucky end of some grand conspiracy.
We got the best one! Better not
say it too loudly, lest someone find us out and realize our good fortune. Dad and I crawl into bed after you fall
asleep at night and talk about the day, and often we'll repeat that truth. We got the best one. Owen, you are the best one for us. For our little family. You are the best one. And because of that, dad and I strive to be
the best ones, too.
Love,
Mom
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