Dear Will - Eighteen Months Old

Dear Will,

You are eighteen months old today. 

This morning before I dropped you off at daycare, we were in the kitchen and you were eating Kix from your favorite cereal cup and you pointed up at our Amazon Echo and said "daddys," which is your word for "monkeys." So I put on the song 5 Little Monkeys, and you grinned at me as you bounced up and down and sang along with the words you knew and then asked me to play it again. And then twice more. And then you decided you wanted to hear the ABCs instead, that you needed to tip over your ball pit and go searching for a toy that had somehow found its way under the refrigerator, that you wanted applesauce instead of cereal, and that you definitely did not want to wear your hat, even though it was twenty degrees outside. 

This is absolutely you in a nutshell at a year and a half. Happy, curious, and brave, sure of what you want, defiant about what you don't, and thrilled with yourself and life in general. 

Eighteen months is my absolute favorite so far. As you have grown I have always been able to see tiny glimmers of who you might be, but over the past month you have really come into your own. You are sweet, loving, and fun, quick with your laughs, and generous with your smiles. You have an independent streak a mile wide, and a curious nature that somehow always leads you towards whatever happens to be the most dangerous thing around you, be it stairs, the open dishwasher full of knives, or the oven handle that you are about two centimeters away from being able to grab.

As always, you still love playing with toys. Your favorite thing to do is to stack blocks, legos, and magnatiles, and then knock your towers down. You are also a bit of a daredevil, climbing everything that can possibly be climbed, jumping off, and then turning around and doing it all over again. You still love books, the Llama Llama series most of all, but you like to read to yourself more than you like being read to. Music is your number one love, and with just a little bit of help you can sing almost the whole ABCs. You can do all the hand motions to Itsy Bitsy Spider and Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes, and you love wagging your finger and saying "no, no, no, no, no" when we sing 5 Little Monkeys.

You started saying words a couple of months ago, and just in the past week or two, you have started figuring out how to put the words you know together. In some ways, eighteen months is hard because you know exactly what you want, but you don't always have the words to tell me. It's frustrating for you, and often ends in an impressive tantrum, but it's also fascinating to watch you watch me while I try to give you the words you need and while you find your voice. You are learning so quickly, and I promise that soon, the frustration of not being able to communicate all the way will be behind us.

It's been awhile since I've written to you like this. For your first twelve months, you could find me at the computer on the 30th of every month, like clockwork, documenting your goings-on for the last thirty days. I was practically religious about it, about documenting your days, and your every milestone. Time was passing by so quickly that I had whiplash, afraid that if I didn't write it all down I wouldn't remember. That I would somehow forget those early days when you were small and I was learning how to be your mom.

But even with the best of intentions and the meticulous documenting of your days, I have forgotten things. I can't remember the exact date you started to crawl, or the day you said your first word. I don't remember exactly how old you were when solid food stopped being a curiosity and started being the normal way of things. I don't remember exactly when you finally learned how to use a sippy cup, and I can never, ever remember which vaccines you have had and when, even though the doctor writes it down for me every time.

But I don't really mind anymore that I have forgotten some of these things. Your first year was filled with cascades of details and it's impossible to remember every single one of them. Eighteen months into this parenting gig, I understand now that this is the way of things. Time moves quickly, things change and so do people, and the tiny details often get swept away in the busyness of our days, buried by the logistics of pick-ups and drop-offs and play dates and meals and baths and bedtimes. But every now and then I look at you and time freezes for just a second and I am reminded yet again what a privilege it is that you are here and so am I, and that I get to be your mom and watch you grow and help you become whoever it is that you will be. And these are the moments that stick with me. The ones that I will remember long after you are grown and these busy, exhausting, and beautifully full days are behind us.

Tomorrow is the last day of the year - your very first full year. And at midnight, when one year ends and another begins, before I crawl into bed, I will tiptoe into your room and watch you for a few minutes while you sleep, and make some quiet wishes for the days and months ahead. There are big things and little things that I will wish for you, but most of all, I will wish for more of this. More of these good days of happiness and health and family and friends. More smiles and laughter and music and fun. More time - as much time as I can get - to be your mom and to watch you grow. 

You are the very best thing, sweet Will. I'm so glad you get to be mine.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Dear Will - Twelve Months Old

Dear Will,

It's your first birthday today.

Three hundred and sixty five days ago, at right about this time, I woke up in a hospital room from a quick nap that was my first real sleep in more than twenty-four hours. It was still early in the morning, and they had taken you to the nursery for a bath and a check-up. Not at all sure what I was supposed to do, I pressed the call button hanging from my bed. An unfamiliar voice blasted out of the speaker next to my head, asking me if I needed anything. "Um, my baby, I think?" I said in a tentative voice. "No problem hon," the voice said, and hung up.

Five minutes later the door to my room opened and a nurse came in, wheeling you in a plastic bassinet. She smiled, lifted you out, handed you to me, and walked out, calling over her shoulder that I should page her if we needed anything. I thought that I probably needed a lot of things, but at that moment I didn't know what any of them were, so I just let her go.

And there we were. Just you and me.

Sometimes it seems impossible that this all happened an entire year ago. I've written to you over and over again over the last twelve months about how time seems to be flying by, and I'm feeling that again today most of all because today you are one, but it really does seem like yesterday that the nurse handed you to me and sailed out of the room, leaving me to get to know you.

And I did. I do.

I know that you love to sit on the kitchen floor while I cook, but only if you have a spoon in each hand to play with. I know that the second you push your bottle away at night I have to put you straight into your crib or it takes you a long time to fall asleep. I know that you love corn and hate scrambled eggs. I know what cry means, "I'm tired" and what cry means something hurts. I know Mother Goose Club will keep you occupied for hours but Sesame Street isn't really your jam. I know you rub your eyes when you're a little tired and your nose when you're exhausted. I know that you hate pants with buttons. I know you like the blue ball but not the orange one as much. I know you never met a television remote or a smartphone you didn't need to grab, immediately. I know that when you really like something, your smile reaches all the way up to your eyes. I know how to make you laugh. I know what your face looks like first thing in the morning and right before you fall asleep.

You were mine the very second they handed you to me one year ago, even though I didn't quite understand it yet, and it's been my great pleasure to watch you grow.

And you are growing, fast and furious. This month, you discovered that books are good for reading, and not just chewing on. Your favorites are Where's Spot and Pat the Bunny, but really, anything with pictures and bright colors is just fine with you. I've started reading to you every night before I put you to sleep, and you sit on the carpet, legs spread, and listen with rapt attention.

You love to stand up, and you are getting so steady on your feet. You mastered pulling yourself up on everything from the bathtub ledge to the gate that we had to put up to keep you away from the stairs, and you'll take some steps if we hold onto your hands or if you balance yourself on your walking toy. I really love watching you figure out this new little slice of independence, and I'm pretty sure that you'll be toddling around in no time.

You are finding your voice too. Aside from "da da," which you figured out awhile ago, your first word, strangely, was "wow" followed closely by "uh oh," and, just yesterday, "see ya." I'm still holding out for "mama" though. Just humor me and get to it soon, ok?

Sometimes I just step back and watch you as you go about your business, still amazed a year later that you're here, and that you're mine. Amazed that the six pound baby I met for the first time twelve months ago is a smart, strong, curious little boy. Amazed that I had a hand in making you that way. And then you notice me watching you and you look up and grin and my heart grows wide because for all of the tough stuff and the exhaustion and the worry and the details, motherhood is miraculous, full stop, and these are the moments that remind me. That I have been given this gift - to raise you and to watch you grow - fills me with a gratitude so huge that I sometimes feel like I can reach out and touch it with my hands.

I spent a lot of time over the past year wondering when I would start to feel like myself again until I realized that the answer was, I wouldn't. Because you changed me the day you were born and you keep changing me, every day, in ways I see and in ways I haven't even begun to figure out yet. Motherhood, with its sharp edges and slippery angles, cracked me wide open and then filled me back up again. I'm not the same person I was a year ago, but I think that having you, raising you, loving you, has made me a better person. A little more open, a little kinder, a little more patient, more confident and comfortable with who I am and who I want to raise you to be.

One year ago today you came into my life, and over the past twelve months, you have made it shine.

Happy first birthday, my sweet, sweet Will.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

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Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Five Months

Six Months

Seven Months

Eight Months

Nine Months

Ten Months

Eleven Months

Dear Will - Eleven Months Old

Dear Will,

You are 11 months old and my god little man, I can hardly believe it. It feels like two minutes ago that I was dressing you in the tiny newborn sized alligator sleeper that I bought for your ride home from the hospital and wondering if there was a size smaller than newborn because your not-even-six pound body was swimming in it. That alligator sleeper is about four sizes too small now and packed away in a memory box that lives on the top shelf of your closet, and a couple of days ago I started picking out stuff for your first birthday party that we're having in about a month.

Your first birthday party. How did that sneak up on us so fast? In between my excitement over themes and the outfit you'll wear and the big cake I'm baking for you to smash is the deep longing I feel to slow time long enough to make memories of these sweet summer days when you're not really an infant anymore but not quite a toddler yet either.

Because these days are my favorite ones so far. You are getting so big, and it seems like every day you discover something new. You are happy and curious and love to learn how things work. You are pretty fearless too, which gives your daddy and me some scary moments, like when you make a run for the steps faster than we can catch you, but secretly, I love this part of you and hope that it never goes away. This is the tough part about being a parent, I'm learning. Striking the balance between making sure you're safe and giving you the freedom to explore your world. I think this will always be hard because part of me just wants to want to hold you close and keep you small forever and ever.

Last weekend we went to visit Aunt Susy, Uncle David, Grammy Reet, and your cousins. You were a tiny bit hesitant at first with all of the new people, but you got over that fast and were soon chatting up a storm, devouring the cheese curls that Aunt Susy got for you, playing with everyone, and smiling and laughing away. From my perch on the couch I watched you and I was so proud of you. You were open and thrilled to be there, in a brand new place, in the center of attention, with so many people who love you to pieces.

For some reason I can't quite grasp, this weekend was a big turning point for you. It seems impossible that you would grow up so much in just four days, but that is exactly what happened. Over four days filled with family, food, and fun you came alive. It was like you had been growing up slowly over the past eleven months, and then it happened all at once and it was jarring and fascinating all at the same time.

It seems impossible that I would forget anything about your first year, and yet there are already parts of it that have started to blur around the edges. But there are also parts of this past year that stand out in my mind, memories that are in complete focus and full color, and I already know that this past weekend will be one of those.You aren't going to remember it but I will, and so one day I'll tell you about how we went to Maryland for Memorial Day the month before you turned one and you started to say "mama," and swam in a big pool for the first time and learned to clap at exactly the right time when Grandma sang "If You're Happy and You Know It." I'll tell you about how you stayed up past your bedtime to eat grilled cheese and french fries in a restaurant and then wouldn't go to sleep and how you really got to know your great-grandma whose husband's name is now yours. I'll tell you about how you laughed when you played with Poppy's mustache and decided that everyone's reading glasses were more fun to play with than any of the toys I brought for you.

I'll tell you about how, at 11 months old, you were silly and smiley and full of fun. How you kept me on my toes and brightened up my life. How every day, you make a mom out of me.

You are such a joy, my sweet Will. Just keep on being you.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Five Months

Six Months

Seven Months

Eight Months

Nine Months

Ten Months

Dear Will - Ten Months Old

Dear Will,

Double digits little man. I took this picture last night. We had just gotten home from Pittsburgh where we were for the last days of Pesach. There were suitcases everywhere, you had smashed blueberries in your hair from dinner, and you needed a bath and a bottle. But since we were away on the day you turned 10 months, nothing would do but that we take these pictures the very second we got home. So I laid out the blanket and arranged the blocks, and put you on the couch. You promptly grabbed all three blocks at the same time and made a quick work of escaping from your perch. I caught you before you took a header straight onto the floor, and managed to snap a few pictures before your patience with me completely ran out.

I'm laughing as I look at these pictures today because they capture the very essence of you, at 10 months. Happy and curious, smiley, silly, and full of fun, impatient with sitting still, and eager to get on with the business of whatever comes next. It's like you know that there is so much more ahead, and you just want to get to it already. 

I understand this because sometimes I do too. I can't wait to watch you take your first steps and all the other amazing things that come with growing up. But at the same time, I look at you and I wonder where my baby went, if he is still there somewhere inside the sturdy little boy you are becoming. You are growing and changing so fast that it sometimes steals my breath and I feel the conflicting emotions of motherhood more acutely these days than I ever have before; pride in how beautifully you are growing and excitement for everything still to come, all mixed up with nostalgia for the months and milestones that are already behind us.

And those milestones are coming fast and furious these days.

Last month you started scooting around, but this month you took it to a whole new level. You fly around the house, never satisfied to stay where you are when there are so many other interesting places to explore. You have started climbing up on your knees to get to things that are out of your reach, and last week you realized that, if you work just a little harder, you can pull yourself up to your full height. You aren't quite there yet, but the fierce look of determination that crosses your face every time you try makes me think you will be soon.

You are getting more and more verbal, and I see you watching us when we talk, trying to copy the sounds and words that we make. You are never happier than when you are sitting on the floor surrounded by toys and talking to yourself. You say "da-da" a lot, and we still can't decide if it's intentional or not, but we know that your first words aren't too far away. 

Seeing you discover your world these past months has been an incredible thing for me. Your eyes are bright and sharp and miss absolutely nothing. When it comes to toys and books and food you know exactly what you want and you can't be distracted, and your focus is pretty amazing for someone so little. Grandma told me last weekend that you remind her of me in that way, and that makes me really happy because I often find myself watching you, wondering what your daddy and I passed on to you, and what parts of you are uniquely yours. It's the pleasure of motherhood, I think, to look at your child and understand that they carry pieces of you that they will make into something all their own. 

In all honesty, the fact that you are ten months old just blows my mind because at this time last year I was still two months away from meeting you, wondering who you would be, what parenting would be like, and whether I would be any good at it. Time seemed to pass both rapidly and agonizingly slow, and I never felt quite prepared for whatever was coming next. Then you were here, brand new and tiny and needing me like no one else ever had before, and there wasn't space to think about that anymore. It took some time, but we settled into a groove, you and I, and I like to think I've done a pretty good job so far. There are times I wonder, but then you smile at me and let out a laugh, and I realize how silly that is. You are happy and healthy and full of fun and most importantly, you are mine. Just the way you're supposed to be.

You are the joy of my life, my sweet Will. Keep on being exactly who you are.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Five Months

Six Months

Seven Months

Eight Months

Nine Months

Dear Will - Nine Months Old

Dear Will,

This morning at 6:45, I heard you talking in your crib. It's your morning routine these days. You start stirring around 6:30, and by 6:45, you are ready to come out and greet the day. So I went downstairs to get your bottle and then came to get you. I brought you into my room and you laid on my bed and fed yourself while I finished getting dressed. Every now and then you took a break from the bottle and you chattered to yourself while you looked around my room, happy with yourself and with things in general.

That's you these days. Happy and smiley and thrilled with all the new things that you are discovering. 

And lately, there has been a whole lot of new. Last week we packed up and moved to our new house. It was a little sad for me, leaving the house where we lived when we were waiting for you to be born, the house we first brought you home to. I remember that day so well. I sat in the backseat next to you for the thirty minute drive and I was more tired than I have ever been in my life, but I was afraid to fall asleep because the nurses and doctors in the hospital just let me leave with you and now it was my job to keep you safe. Grandma and Poppy were waiting in the driveway when we pulled in. They helped us bring everything inside, and then I sat with you on the couch in the family room and you were so impossibly tiny and it was hard for me to imagine you ever getting big.

But you did, of course. You are.

Our new house might not be the house that we brought you home to, but it is the house that you will grow up in. And it seems like you have already done so much growing up in the week that we have been there. You love playing in your new playroom, and you figured out quickly that our wood floors work really well for scooting. You sit up now, and use your left leg to motor yourself wherever you want to go, instead of crawling. It's surprisingly efficient and as a side benefit for us, really funny to watch. Before we all know it you'll be walking, and when I look out at our backyard I can practically see you running around, playing on the swing set we will definitely buy next year, and I know without hesitation that this house was exactly the right choice. 

Once day when you're older I'll drive you past our old house. I'll show you the place where I used to spread your baby blanket so we could lay outside in the sun together, and I'll show you the place on the deck where you would sleep in your chair while we ate dinner, barely taking our eyes off of you. I'll show you the place where we stumbled our way through the early months of parenthood, making mistakes but loving you in all the ways we knew how. I'll show you the place where we became a family. You won't remember it, so I'll tell you and then you'll know.

Sometimes at night I come into your room and for a minute or two I watch you while you sleep, always on your tummy with your arms tucked underneath you. You barely stir when I put my hand gently on your back and that's my favorite time of the day to offer up a prayer for you. Thank you for my baby, I say. Help me keep him happy and safe. And standing there in the dark while you're fast asleep in your crib I feel the full weight of motherhood, with all of its complexity and the startlingly simple well of love that runs through its core. 

Nine months old, my sweet Will. I know I say this all the time, but I can hardly believe it. You're getting bigger and sturdier every day and it's so much fun to watch you grow and change. But no matter what happens, you'll still be my baby.

Always, ok?

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Five Months

Six Months

Seven Months

Eight Months

Dear Will - Eight Months Old

Will,

Eight months old, my little man. 

I took the first of these pictures of you when you were just one month old. You were too little to even be propped up on the couch, so I had to lay you down on the blanket while you looked around, wondering what in the world was happening. Yesterday afternoon, when I took your eight month pictures, I could barely get you to stay still for more than three second at a time. You knew exactly what was going on, and you were far more interested in sitting up and leaning over the front of the couch to try and find something to play with then you were in smiling for any sort of picture.

That's you, at eight months. You are busy and curious and a bundle of energy. You still love your toys, and as soon as you sit down, you always search out your favorites. I realized the other day that I don't have to put things right in front of you anymore. You can reach for what you want, and when you get it, you look up at me with a big smile as if to say, "hey, look what I did!" And when you smile at me, you flash your two brand new bottom teeth, and it's so cute I can't even stand it. Just this morning you were reaching for something and you toppled right over. For a second I thought you would cry, but you didn't. Instead, you just rolled to your stomach and pushed yourself up, kicking your legs and babbling away, as if that's what you meant to do the whole time.

You are, I think, about two minutes away from crawling. You can get up on all fours and rock back and forth, but then you always fall flat on your tummy, waving your arms and legs, trying so hard to move, and getting frustrated when you just stay put. I can practically see the wheels turning in your head, trying to figure it out. I'm waiting for the day when you finally put it all together though, because as soon as you do, I think you are going to be unstoppable.

More than ever, you are clear in the things that you like and don't like, and never hesitate to let us know. You love bananas and you hate peas. You love being in the car but could do without that pesky car-seat, thank you very much. You were enthusiastic about puffs, but threw those scrambled eggs right onto the floor. Seeing your tiny mouth trying to figure out whether to scream or grin when you try something new never doesn't make me laugh. 

As you get bigger, I sometimes look at you and I feel like I can see the person you are going to be in the baby that you are and it's just fascinating to me. As a mom, I sometimes just think of you as an extension of me. And that's normal, I think. Because after all, you came from me - literally - and because somewhere in the middle of bottles and diapers, of baths and bedtimes, of pick-ups and drop-offs and schedules, it's easy to forget that these days don't last forever, no matter how much it sometimes feels like they will. But when I sit on the couch with my book and my coffee and watch you play on the carpet, I remember that you are a person all your own, more every day, and how amazing is that?

It's hard to believe that two-thirds of a year has gone by since the hot, hazy day that we brought you home from the hospital. That in four months we'll be singing you happy birthday. I know that I've written this to you before, but I can't help but think once again that time is a strange and funny thing. Your first few weeks seemed to drag on and on in a blur of doctors and bottles, sleepless nights and exhausted days. But the bigger you get, the faster they go, and I think that's why I like to write to you here. I like to think that I'll always remember every detail about this time when you were little and we were figuring out this whole life thing, but I know I won't. And I want to be able to tell you how it was. How I sometimes made mistakes and didn't always know what to do, but that I tried my very best, and loved you in every way I knew how. 

How you, my sweet Will, were, and are, my very best thing.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Five Months

Six Months

Seven Months

Dear Will - Seven Months Old

Will,

Seven months. How did we get here already, my not-so-little-anymore babe?

This was the month that you really came alive. For the first time since you were born, I looked at you and I thought, "kid" instead of "baby." You have started talking up a storm and your eyes lock on mine when I talk to you, and I can see your brain working, just waiting to make actual words out of the sounds. And I know it's early for this, but I can't help but wonder what your first real words are going to be.

You never learned to roll over, but went right to sitting instead. It was as if you didn't have time for that slow progression, but were eager to just get to the good stuff already. You can sit up all by yourself now, and you are happy to sit on the living room floor for hours playing with your toys. And you love your toys. You don't just grab them and put them in your mouth anymore. Instead you bang them against each other and shake them to hear the sounds they make, and when you really like one of the sounds you look up at me and grin your big baby grin and laugh a little, as if you can hardly believe what you just did. From my perch on the couch, I watch you while you play, and I already think that you are going to have a really good imagination - just like your daddy - and that thrills me because his imagination has brought him so much happiness and joy, and I hope that yours does for you too.

You saw your very first snow this month. Last Saturday morning we woke up and the whole world was white. I took you to the door and you stared out at the still-falling snow and you bounced up and down, excited by this new thing. When the storm was over I dressed you up in your blue snowsuit that matches your eyes and took you outside to play. We sat you down in the snow that was almost as tall as you, and you giggled and squealed while we played the stereotypical new parents and scurried around snapping pictures. And I was so excited that you loved it because snow is one of my most favorite things, and I was already thinking ahead to next year when you can walk and talk and I can take you out to play and we can share my favorite snow day treats and I can show you all of the magic that happens during a winter storm.

Six months ago, when I was elbow deep in your diapers and spit-up and still waking up all night long, I wanted to kill anyone who would tell me to "enjoy it because it goes so fast." But I feel differently now. I understand now that it really does go so fast that I sometimes feel breathless. On the one hand, I want time to just slow its roll, to give me the opportunity to imprint these days and these moments so that I can always remember how it was when you were little and I was learning how to be a mom. But I also know that there is so much more up ahead. This paradox of motherhood informs all of my moments with you, and I suspect that this is exactly the way it should be.

You fill me up with goodness, my sweet Will. I'm so happy to be your mom.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Five Months

Six Months

Dear Will - Six Months Old

Dear Will,

You're six months old today. I feel like one gigantic parenting cliche when I say that I have no idea how this even happened. How has time flown by so fast that you are already halfway to a year old?

But time is a funny thing. I've always known this, the way time tends to stretch out and contract depending on the circumstances, but never more so since you came blazing into my life. When you were about nine days old, I was sitting on the couch with your grandma and I was holding you while you slept and I was exhausted, half-asleep. I mentioned to her that I felt like I had lived a lifetime in the less than two weeks since you were born. She smiled. Maybe even laughed a little. "That's parenthood," she said to me. "It's a lifetime and it's also five minutes."

I have realized over and over in the past six months just how exactly right she was. Because even though it seems like just days ago that we locked eyes for the first time, I also sometimes feel like I can't remember a time when you weren't here, growing and changing and becoming a person with opinions and preferences and a personality that gets bigger every day.

At six months old you are the happiest baby around. My favorite moment of the day is when I walk into the house after work and you see me in the doorway and you give me that open-mouth grin that is absolutely my favorite. You know me, I always think. You know that I'm your mom. And that's just magic.

You love to smile and talk to yourself and to us. Sometimes, when you wake up in the morning, you are perfectly content to lay in your crib and babble away to yourself and it makes me wonder about what's going on in your head, and about all the things that you'll be saying once you learn the words. You are more judicious with your giggles, holding them back until you find something really, really funny. I'm the best at getting you to laugh though, and that fact makes me exceptionally, unreasonably happy.

This past month, you were sick for the first time. You had a cold and a high fever and for two days you barely cracked a smile. On the second night it was hard for you to sleep. You were hot and restless and weepy and every time I heard you cry I came in and picked you up from your crib and sat with you in our big grey chair. I covered you with a blanket and we rocked until you fell back to sleep. And there, in the darkness of 3am, with your head heavy on my shoulder, I wanted with everything I had to make you feel better, and I thought that I had never felt more like a mom than I did in that moment.

It's funny how it happens. I became a parent in the big moments of your life - the day you were born, the day you came home from the hospital. But it's in the quiet moments - feeding you in the middle of the night when you were a new baby, packing your little backpack every night for daycare, walking with you in your stroller down a sunny, summer street, rocking you to sleep  - that I became a mom.

I want what's best for you with a fierceness that I sometimes don't recognize. I want you to be healthy and happy and to know how much we love you and that we will always, always be on your side. I want the world to be kind to you. I want to protect you from disappointment and sadness and mean kids and high school even though I know that I can't and that I wouldn't even if I could because those are the things that build character and make you interesting. The truth is, all that wishing and wanting and hoping can sometimes be overwhelming. But then, you look up at me with your big, blue, curious eyes that seem to see everything and I realize that I am trying my very best and you are exactly where you need to be and we are doing just fine.

You are getting so big, and it seems like every day some shirt or pair of pants that fit you yesterday is too small all of a sudden. And while putting clothes that you have outgrown into separate bins labeled by size appeals to my great love of organization, it also makes me a little bit sad. I sometimes miss the tiny baby you once were, even though watching you grow and change over the past six months has been my great pleasure. This is the paradox of motherhood, I think. Nostalgia for the months and years behind you and excitement for what lies ahead, all tied together with the visceral understanding that one day, if I do my job right, you are going to grow tall and strong and independent and take your first steps away from me and I am going to have to let you go.

But not yet, ok?

Happy six months, my sweet Will. I am so proud to be your mom, and I am so lucky that you are mine.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Five Months

Dear Will - Five Months Old

Dear Will,

You are five months old today. And what a month it has been. 

Last month around this time I was rocking you to sleep, my tears dropping on your head as I thought about leaving you at daycare when I went back to work. It seemed impossible that I could leave such a tiny baby with strangers while I went to the city for the day. That I would only see you for an hour in the morning when you woke up and an hour or two at night before you went to sleep and that would be it for the entire day. And while, admittedly, the first few days were pretty rough, like most things that have happened in the five months since you blazed into my life, we have done just fine.

It's still weird to me, walking into my office every day where everything is exactly the same as it always was, while my life - our lives - are so completely different. I think of you a lot during the day, and I structure my whole day so I can be sure to be home in time to feed you and put you to sleep. You are a piece of me now, and I suspect that this is the way it is supposed to feel. I didn't think about it much while I was on maternity leave and home with you every day, but now that I am away from you for big chunks of time I understand. We are bound together, you and me. Inextricably and always.

The funny thing is, it turns out I am happy to be back at work. I think it's made me a better person, and certainly a better mom to you. I was worried about this a lot. Whether I would be able to pick up where I left off, and whether I could be a lawyer again after spending so much time learning how to be a mom. But it turns out that I did, and I can, and I really can be both. I hope that you'll understand this one day. I think you will, becuase I hope I can raise you to do the things that feel good to you, to find your passion, and to understand that there can, and should, be different parts of you that exist together to make you into who you are. I'm still not sure if being a lawyer is my passion - I suspect somehow that I'm still searching for what is - but I know now that I can do my very best as your mom, and do other things too. I think this makes us all better people, for ourselves and to each other.

None of this would be as easy as it has been if you hadn't taken so well to daycare. You transitioned really easily, and you are having such a good time. Whenever I go there to pick you up your teachers always tell me how happy and smiley you are, and this just fills me right up. I am so happy that you are in a place during the day with good people who care about you, and who fill your days with fun. And I am happy to share you with them during the week, because they are as thrilled to watch you grow up as I am.

And grow up you are. You are really starting to play with your toys, and you can already sit up for a little bit if you balance with your hands. You love bouncing in your Exersaucer, and you get so excited when we put you in the Bumbo we just got for you, so you can sit up for real and see the world from a whole new vantage point. You get bigger and sturdier every single day, and sometimes I look at you and it seems like you are literally growing up right in front of me. 

Last week was Thanksgiving. I've always loved this holiday for the family and the fun, and for the second to stop and be thankful for the greatness in our lives. And my goodness, there is a lot of it. But this year, what I am most thankful for, is you. One day when you're older I'll tell you about your first Thanksgiving. How we went to your Sabba and Savta's house and you wore a big sticker that said "My First Thanksgiving." How you sat in a highchair pulled up close to the dining room table and played with toys while the rest of us ate dinner. How you banged on the tray and laughed and tried to grab everyone's forks and how we let you. How my gratitude that you are here and healthy and happy and safe was so huge that it stole my breath.

I still sometimes can't believe it, my sweet Will, but you are so very much mine. 

Always, ok?

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Four Months

Dear Will - Four Months Old

Dear Will,

You are four months old.

Last week, on the night before I went back to work, you fell asleep just as you were finishing your last bottle of the night, the one I always give you in your room, in the big gray chair. I didn't put you in your crib though. Instead, I sat with you and we rocked. I kissed your nose and stroked your head and tried to whisper an entire day's worth of words to you. But the words kept getting stuck somewhere in my throat and instead I just looked at you, at the way that your extra long eyelashes fan out over your cheeks when your eyes are closed and the way that your hands never quite settle at your sides when I hold you, even when you're fast asleep. And I thought about dropping you off in the morning for your first day of daycare and the tears that clouded my eyes broke free and fell onto your fresh-from-the-bath hair.

And as I sit here and write this I picture you reading it when you're a little older, all lanky limbs and blond hair and blue, blue eyes filled with embarrassment and horror at the very thought of your mom crying over your tiny, four month old head. And since I'll always be honest with you, I'll tell you that a few months ago I could never imagine myself doing it either.

But now I'm a mom and what I know now is that moms cry. A lot.

For the first week of your life I cried every day as I held you and figured out how to do life with a baby. When you were six weeks old you smiled just at me for the very first time and my heart grew about eleven sizes and the tears just spilled over. When you were three months old we started sleep-training you and on the second night your Daddy was out and as you cried in your crib I sat on the couch and cried right along with you as I resisted the urge to run upstairs and pick you up and tell you that you never have to go to sleep ever again if you don't want to. And a few weeks ago you were strapped into your car-seat and I was playing with your toes and you looked at me and laughed your first laugh and my breath caught in my throat and the floodgates opened again.

God, I know. I'm really sorry about all of this kiddo, but you're stuck with me. Right after you were born the doctor bundled you up and handed you to me and your wide-open eyes looked into mine and I was exhausted and bewildered and wondering what in the world had just happened, but I knew then that I was yours and you were mine. In the middle of all the complexity on that early Tuesday morning in June, this one thing was simple.

Every morning when you wake up, I come get you out of your crib and you smile your biggest smile of the day and while I give you your bottle in the quiet house I wonder all kinds of things about you. I wonder what you'll like and what you won't, who you'll be when you grow up and what you'll want to do, and whether they're right when they say that little boys love their moms the best.

The truth is, I don't care about any of those things (except that one about little boys loving their moms best - I'm already sure they're right about that). I just hope you live your life with passion and purpose and do the things that bring you joy. I want you to become just who you are supposed to be, and the world needs whatever gifts you were meant to give. These things might not always be obvious to you and that's the way it's supposed to be. Trust yourself and the journey and you will find your way. You are exactly enough, and if you ever forget that, I promise to remind you.

You already love words and books and as a writer and life-long reader this makes me prouder than I have any right to be. I read you a book every night before you go to sleep and you like to grab a piece of my hair with one hand and the pages of the book with the other but as long as I'm reading you listen. I hope you always love books. Those pages can teach you and entertain you and transport you to far-off lands and take you on magical journeys. The characters you meet will become friends who can cheer you up when you're feeling down and keep you company when you feel like being quiet.

And speaking of quiet, there's something you should know. You might be the kind of person who loves people and crowds and parties and noise, and that's a wonderful thing. But in case you don't, you need to know that it's ok to be quiet too. There is a great power in the gift of quiet and if that gift is yours, don't be afraid to use it. Because when you give yourself the permission to be quiet, you can discover deep wells inside of yourself that you didn't know existed, and it is from these wells that your purpose may flow. There are many different kinds of power in this world. My greatest wish for you is that you use well the kind that you have been granted.

Above all else my sweet Will, know that you are loved, fiercely and without reservations. By me, by your dad, by the aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents who will always surround you. Let that unshakable love give you the courage and confidence to dream and to live your life with joy and a wide open heart.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Three Months

Dear Will - Three Months Old

Dear Will,

You are three months old today.

Everyone told me that three months is a big milestone, and as it turns out, everyone was right. Over the past week or so, you seem almost like a different baby to me. The tiny infant who slept all day and just woke up to eat is suddenly a sturdy baby who bats at toys, smiles all the time, and sees absolutely everything. Your big blue eyes are always open, always looking around, taking in this new world that you are just getting to know, claiming your little slice of it.

Just this week you started babbling to yourself. You talk and talk and smile and then look at me and laugh a little and then start all over again. I know that it's still awhile away, but I can already imagine those little babbles turning into real words and that startles me as much as it thrills me because it feels like time is flying by, faster and faster every day. Sometimes I feel a little manic, trying to memorialize all of your moments. Maybe it's the natural result of raising a baby in the age of Facebook and Instagram, but I sometimes feel like if there isn't a picture of it, then it must not have happened. But then I remind myself to put down the camera and really look at you because even though I might not remember every single little moment, I will never really forget these months, and how it was when you were a newborn baby and we were just getting to know each other and when you taught me how to be a mom.

And you are, you know. Teaching me. When you were born and they handed you to me I looked at you and in that moment I realized just how little I actually knew. In a single second I went from not-a-mom to a mom, and they were going to send me home with you and it was my job to figure out how to do it, and how daunting is that? But what I have learned over the past three months is that motherhood is not a one-sized-fits-all proposition. Every baby is different and every mother is different, and when I stop and watch and listen, you let me know exactly what you need.

It turns out that I am exactly what you need, and that surprises me more than anything. Because for all of the thinking and planing I did when we were waiting for you to get here, I wasn't sure if I was going to be any good at being a mom, or whether I would even like it. But as it turns out, I am, and I do. It was a little rocky at first, but I suspect that's the way it's supposed to be. And as we've settled in and started to figure each other out, I have started to think a lot about how it's going to be as you get older, and all the experiences I want you to have and the things that I want to show you. Hold on tight little babe, because I have big, big plans for us.

You might not believe it, but I am going back to work in about a month, and to be honest, I can hardly even imagine what it's going to be like. You don't know this, but once upon a time, as little as three months ago, I used to hop on a train to Manhattan every day to go be a lawyer. I worked until late at night and then I came home and your daddy and I would eat dinner and spend some time together and then we would go to sleep so we could do it all over again in the morning. Typing this as I watch you sleep next to me on the couch, that life feels utterly foreign to me. Like the lawyer in me has taken a backseat since the day you were born while I became a mom. And in a few short weeks I am going to have to drop you off at daycare and don my lawyer hat, and I'm not sure if I even know how to do that anymore. But there's time enough to figure all of that out. Because today, sitting with you, that day still seems like a long time away. There are still lots of hugs and snuggles and learning to be done before then, and we'll soak it all in, you and I.

It's a remarkable thing, really, to watch your baby get bigger. It's strange because in those first few weeks, caught in the newborn haze of diapers and feedings and sleepless nights, I forgot that you are not going to be small forever. That you are going to grow into a boy and one day, into a man, and it's my job to grow you up well. I want more than anything to get this right, and since you just woke up, looked at me, and smiled big, I think I've got a good start. We'll figure the rest out together.

Thanks for being mine, my sweet Will. I wouldn't have it any other way.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letters:

One Month

Two Months

Dear Will - Two Months Old

 

Dear Will,

What a difference a month makes, right?

Just four week ago when I wrote to you, I was staring at my computer screen through the tears of a new mother. The ones born of fear, worry, exhaustion, and the constant feeling that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Because I really didn't. You had just barreled into my life, and I found myself a little stunned by the speed at which everything changed. One second my life was one thing, and the next it was something else and I thought that maybe I was an entirely different person. I certainly didn't feel like the person I was on the day before you were born. And maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. I think it probably is. Because on the day you were born, I was born too, as a mother.

I think you spent an entire month with the top of your head wet with my tears. I'm really sorry about that. But a couple of weeks ago, something changed. I felt the undeniable shift deep within me. From fear to enjoyment. From anxiety to something resembling calm.

I think we're getting used to each other, you and I.

It started, I think, when you smiled for the first time a couple of weeks ago. You were laying on your changing table and I was talking to you and you looked at me and all of sudden your mouth curved up in a real and true smile. You are, I hope, going to smile millions of times during your life, but the first one was the most special of them all. And it unlocked something inside of me. Something that made me feel, maybe for the first time, that I'm doing this mothering thing right. That we are doing just fine.

Last week we took you to the Jersey Shore to Aunt Sara and Uncle James' beach house. On our first day there we took you to the beach in your stroller and the blue hat that I couldn't resist buying, and I dipped your feet in the ocean and in the sand. And the next morning while everyone was sleeping I took you back to the beach and we watched the sun rise over the water and it felt like we were the only two people in the world, you and me, in that moment when night became day.

And you won't remember that morning, but I will, and one day I'll tell you. I'll tell you about how you woke up at 5am and didn't want to go back to sleep after you ate. I'll tell you about how I wished that you would because I wanted to go back to sleep too. I'll tell you about how I laid you in your stroller and how we walked the one block to the beach under a sky that was just starting the lighten. I'll tell you about how I walk up the pathway leading to the beach and lifted you out of your stroller so we could watch the sun come up together. And I'll tell you about how glad I was that you didn't fall back to sleep after your bottle because I got to have that moment with you, in one of my favorite places, at the most magical time of day.

There is so much magic in the world, my sweet Will. And if I can teach you to embrace that magic, to find the things and the moments that give you joy, to return to them over and over again, I think I will have done my job right.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom

Previous Letter:

One Month

Dear Will - One Month Old

Will,

A few nights ago I was sitting in bed feeding you. It was very late at night, or very early in the morning, depending on how you you feel about 3am, and I was tired. I was so tired that as you ate I kept nodding off and even though we were perfectly safe in the middle of my big bed, I was terrified that if I fell asleep I would drop you and you would somehow end up on the floor. So I grabbed my phone and with my free hand I scrolled through my beloved Entertainment Weekly blogs to keep myself awake until you were done and I could put you safely back into your bassinet.

Motherhood, I'm learning, comes with a lot of unknown and a healthy dose of fear. Some of it rational and a lot of it far less so, but all of it of a kind that keeps me wide awake in the late night or early morning hours when I should be asleep, and falling asleep when I should be awake. My nights and days are flipped around now, as your are, and I can't shake the feeling that as you are learning how to do this whole life thing, I am learning it too, all over again.

I can barely summon the words to describe the past four weeks. As a writer, it is disconcerting to not be quite able to explain what has been the most transformative time period of my life, but as a human, this makes perfect sense to me.

A month ago you barreled into my life. One second you were an unknown, and the next, it was 4:17 am on a Tuesday and you were in my arms and very much real. There were some dicey moments that night, and it got scary and you had to be born really, really fast. But we did it and everything was fine and you were tiny and gorgeous and perfectly healthy, and suddenly everything was different.

I would be lying, though, if I said that this month has been all sunshine and rainbows. It hasn't. It has been hard and exhausting and overwhelming and I have spent a lot of it in tears. I think I have cried more than you have at this point, over everything and nothing at all. This is the part that no one talks about; the part that they don't show in the movies.

This is all wildly normal of course, and I sometimes can't even believe that they just let parents leave the hospital with a baby and without an instruction manual or something that tells us what to know and what to do and how to raise you up. Despite that, I think, one month in, that we are doing ok. You just went to the doctor and you have gained a lot of weight and are doing exactly what you are supposed to be doing, and your daddy and I have started to feel the ground firm beneath our feet. Forgive us for all of the things that we get wrong as we learn our way. We are still learning, and we are trying our very, very best.

Know this, my sweet Will. We are so happy that you are here and that we are a family. It was just your daddy and me for a long while and now, with gratitude, we are three, and it is our joy to watch as you grow. We have been waiting for you.

With love as big as the sky,

Mom