Dear Cyan,
I remember so much about the week you were born with vivid clarity:
looking over at you as you were weighed, snuggling with you in recovery, our perfect afternoon before it all went south, the
debilitating spinal headache, and the rising sense that something was very,
very wrong with the way you were eating.
The weeks that followed are more of a blur: mornings spent
holding you in the NICU, listening to the doctors at rounds; nights spent
watching mind-numbing TV shows until all hours just so I didn’t have to face
that inevitable moment when I would get into bed and have nothing to distract
me from worrying about you.
I look back on the letter I wrote to you during that time, when
everything seemed hopeless, and it feels like yesterday. But mere days later we
had the worst/best day ever, when I walked in and saw you with a tube again,
and I broke down in tears. A nurse comforted me, handed me a homemade blanket
to snuggle you with. The primary doctor who was caring for you told me “sorry”
with such sadness in his eyes, and said they would keep looking.
Only hours later, that same nurse convinced the doctor that
rerunning a certain GI test was a good idea, and then that same doctor entered
the room with a huge grin: “We found the problem!” In what was both a rush of
activity and a long wait, you had surgery, you were done, you were on your way
to recovery. The entire team felt such relief at solving you. I am forever
indebted to them.
I haven't looked at this photo since the day I took it, after your surgery. It still amazes me how small you were, and how strong. You impressed the doctors and nurses with how easy-going you were, how relaxed, and, of course, how cute. You are my little fighter, my trouble-maker, my heart.
The months since you came home have been nothing but joy.
You have a smile that attracts people from across the room. I can’t count how
many people have commented on that smile in stores when we run errands. They
smile right back at you, your joy now their joy.
You and I have had quite a year together. Quitting my job
was one of the best decisions I ever made. It allowed me to watch you grow, day
by day, minute by minute. We got to do library programs, swim lessons, go on
walks, read books, cuddle on the couch (though there’s no keeping you still
these days). We have become a bit attached to each other, which is why daycare
was a good idea. I think you like it. I hope you like it. I do miss you, but
it’s nice to be able to get things done in chunks longer than your naps.
You have recently figured out standing on your own, and
lately clapping as well. You are a speed demon when you crawl. You have even take a step or two before falling into my arms. I’m still
working on getting you to say “Hi” and wave. You really only say “mama” and
“dada” and “baba” and “nana,” and I’m not sure you say any of those with
intention, but I know you will get there. You love your brother and sister, and
even though they sometimes say you are annoying I know they love you too.
You get very excited when we put on “Baby Signing Time,” and
I’m not ashamed to say I use it to keep you occupied while I do some chores or
cook dinner. One of these days you will start signing, but for now the way you
jump with excitement when you know I am putting it on makes it worth it. You
adore the cats, even though they are a bit wary of you. They have let you pet
them, though, which is a Big Deal.
In short, you are exactly where you should be, despite your
rough start. I cannot imagine our lives without you and that smile, that
excitement, that giggle. You have taught me so much in only a year, and I can’t wait to see what your second year brings!
Love,
Mama
