>Yep, I just said it.

During Milo’s first month, it never failed that I would no sooner get a clean diaper on him than his little face would turn beet red and the “gas” that I thought he had already gotten out of his system decided to make another forceful exit- and bring some friends along for the ride. During most diaper changes, I was usually far too concerned with keeping his little man parts covered to consider that there was another “exit” down there that needed guarding. But I’ve discovered that diapers don’t mean a thing, really, and just because parts are covered, doesn’t mean you’re safe. The other day, I was holding Milo over my shoulder trying to get him to burp. It should also be mentioned that I was sitting on the couch with a bath towel, draped only partially over me because I was halfway through my shower when he decided to start screaming. Since he’s always been a bit of a gassy baby to begin with, I wasn’t too surprised when he bunched his legs up and started grunting. But I will know better next time.

It took me half a second to realize that something warm and sticky was on my face. In my hair. On my nose and upper lip. In my EYE. Oh GOD, in my EYE.

And it’s amazing what goes through your mind in the 2.5 seconds that follow a poop bomb that explodes in your face. After all, this is my own flesh and blood. This is my heart. But he just sharted in. my. face. And in that one instant, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Instead, I just sat there on the couch, paralyzed, afraid to move for fear that I would discover it in more places. And then I started to gag. People who know me well can attest that even though I have a strange and intense fear of throwing up, I hardly EVER do and I have a fairly strong gag reflex. But this nearly pushed me over the edge. In fact, I think I would have rather been thrown up on than this- and that’s a BOLD statement coming from me.

So after another shower and a delicate attempt to put hand-sanitizer all over my face (hmmm…alcohol and eyeballs are never a good combo), I recovered. And he just grinned at me. He knew exactly what he’d done. But I think that I do, in fact, have the upper hand. When he comes to me 13 years from now and asks why he has to clean his room/go to school/go to bed early, I’ll say, “because I’m your mother and I said so. And because you sharted in my face when you were 2 months old. So there.”

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It’s currently week 11 of Milo’s middle-of-the-night munching. This is exactly four and a half weeks past the point that Ella decided to be an angel and sleep through the night. (Yes, I now painfully understand how lucky we were with her). At first, I was naive enough to think that putting him in the Woombie would work it’s magic just like it did with his sister, but alas, we are still waking up at least once in the middle of the night. So I started thinking about this sleep-deprivation thing and I’ve decided that there’s a certain progression down this oh-so-familiar path of fatigue. I think it goes something like this:

Weeks 1 and 2: Some might predict these to be the hardest weeks of adjustment, but surprisingly, these are some of the easier weeks to deal with because you’re still riding that hormonal high (and sometimes hormonal VERY low) and you’re simply caught up in the newness of your little ball of pudge. You look at your husband with googly eyes as you watch him make the transformation from husband to Daddy, or daddy times two (or three…). Life is sweet. You might even catch yourself saying, “Hey, this isn’t so bad. I don’t know what I was so worried about. I’m not that tired.”

Week 3: this is the game-changer. Something happens in week 3, (or at least it did both times in my case): the newness wears off, the family that was hanging around to help (if you were so lucky) has vacated the premises and “real life” starts to sink in. It’s 1:42 a.m. and you’re up yet again with your hungry ball of pudge and two realizations hit you. 1) Your husband has a hidden talent you never knew existed in all your years of dating and marriage, which is that he could sleep through a tornado. Perhaps DEAF is a better term. At the same time you also realize that you are now equipped with an acute sense of hearing- one so sharp that you can actually hear the boogers rattling inside your baby’s nostrils. You find this to be both alarming and annoying.

Week 4-5: Is it just your imagination, or is your darling little one a little less darling at 2:19 a.m.? You’ll do anything to keep yourself awake because, as odd as it sounds, having the jaws of life attached to your boobs isn’t enough. So you resort to checking facebook on your phone. What? No one else is posting at 2:30 in the morning? Only one new post? Lame. And then by 5:50 a.m., you’re so tired that you hate your iPhone, you hate your leaking boobs, you hate your husband for not being able to lactate (and also for the simple fact that he looks so peaceful sleeping beside you) and you hate your child’s incessant booger rattling/grunting/squeaking/farting.

Week 6: Hello, growth spurt. In other words, the 20 minute window of time you used to take a shower is practically non-existent. You might as well not even wear a shirt. When you go to your 6 week PP check-up, your OB asks you about birth control and first, you laugh. Who’s having sex?? But then you tell him you’ll take them ALL. The IUD, the depo provera shot, the pill- Just throw them all in a goody-bag and you’ll be on your way. You can never be too sure.

Week 7-8: At this point, baby randomly throws in a 5 hour stretch of sleep here and there and you’re so elated that you almost pee your pants in excitement. Suddenly, 4:30 doesn’t seem so bad when you weren’t already awake at 2. S/he looks cute again. Your husband’s snoring doesn’t seem to bother you as much. You think that maybe things are starting to take a turn toward normalcy.

Week 9: Yeah, right. SUCKA! You’re back at square one again, and this time it stings that much more because you’ve had a taste of what semi-decent sleep feels like. You fight the urge to pick up the phone and call your mother to tell her you’re sorry for all the shit you put her through and that you love her. She must have put the “I hope one day you have kids who act just like you do” curse on you. You think if this is any indication, the teenage years are going to be AWESOME.

Week 10: You figure out that whatever is left of your disposable income after buying diapers and wipes goes to coffee and under-eye concealer, in that exact order. And then wine.

Week 11: The sleep is getting better. Gradually more nights of 5-6 hour stretches, but not enough that you’re willing to bank on anything. You’ve learned the hard way that these precious babes are notorious for making you think you have them figured out, only to throw a wrench (or teether, whatever) into the plans. So you do what can do to get by- only slightly aware of what day of the week it is, and you think it’s already May, but who can be sure? You’re confident that one day you’ll look back, albeit with a much more well-rested perspective, and think it wasn’t so bad.
(But then you can re-read this blog-post and be reminded that it only took 5 days to actually finish it because brain cells only function for so long with inadequate sleep).

Ah well, life goes on.

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There are so many reasons why I love my girl. The first time I saw her and she bore holes into me with those big eyes, I knew I was in way over my head. The only person that’s wrapped any tighter around her little finger is her daddy and rightly so. But aside from that unconditional, overwhelming “I would lay down in front of a semi for you” bond, I am also in awe of the little person she’s becoming and she’s constantly keeping her Daddy and me entertained with the many facets of her personality. So I thought I’d share a few things that make Ella our Bug

1. She’s quick. And I don’t mean the way she ran and tripped over her own two feet and busted her head open on the corner of our baseboard kind of quick. (Who knew so much blood could result from a 3/4 inch gash??) I mean that she thinks on her feet. (Well, most of the time anyway). She knows exactly what she wants and she goes for it. That box of cupcakes in the corner of the kitchen counter that I thought I had hidden sufficiently behind the mixing bowls? Nope. She already spotted them from across the room. And that “I love you, momma” hug that she just came up and gave me out of the clear blue? Puh-lease. It’s not because she wants to cuddle. She wants a cupcake. And she specifically wants the only chocolate one that’s left- the one I’ve had MY eye on. She obviously doesn’t yet know the lengths I’m willing to go to to protect my chocolate…

2. She’s no push-over. In fact, she’s probably the one doing the pushing most of the time. It’s no secret to any of our friends with kids her age that our Bug has a fiery temper. There have been umpteen scoldings and timeouts in the middle of playdates because, yet again, she’s bonked someone on the top of the head or smacked them in the face or thrown her sippy cup/binky/Little People figurine down (much the way an enraged football coach takes his cap off and pummels it to the ground). And yet, I find it oddly reassuring that my daughter will never be a doormat. I’m just having a bit of a hard time explaining there are very few times in life when it truly IS okay to throw a right hook (thanks to Daddy for teaching her that one *ahem*) and being told that she cannot have more animal crackers isn’t one of those times.

3. She’s a feeler. Now, it may be too soon to know if she is a true F on the Meyers-Briggs test, but I’m gonna say that all signs point in that direction. If looks can say a thousand words, then, well, she’d be horrible at poker. As with most kids her age, she wears her heart on her sleeve, and it absolutely melts me. But, while she can be the most loving, empathetic creature- showering Milo, me, Jake or any of her friends with hugs and kisses- a mere 30 seconds later, upon being told that no, she can not watch any more Elmo, she can also emit a shriek that would grow hair on a tomato, deliver a vicious backhand, and then clear all of her Litte People off of the coffee table in one fell swoop of her forearm.

4. She sings. all. the. time. And of course, I would still love her just as much even if she wasn’t constantly entertaining Jake and me with her antics on Jake’s ukulele, belting out snippets of “Hey, Soul Sister” or “Heartbreak Warfare,” or dancing around like a spider monkey on crack to her favorite band, Athlete. But I love that she owns the stage when she takes it. And I’m especially grateful that she hasn’t gotten hooked on the Wee Sing Silly Songs collection or anything from Thomas the Train.

5. She’s an awesome big sister. Obviously, she has her share of jealous moments and for some odd reason, has become very vocal lately about the breast pump: “No Momma? No, no pump milk?!”. (I tell her that it’s okay, it scares Daddy too). But she genuinely cares for her “Mi-yo,” whether it’s sticking his binky back in when it falls out, helping me cover him up at nap time, rocking him in his carseat when he starts to fuss or just leaning in to kiss him on the forehead for no apparent reason. Am I naive enough to think that will continue once he becomes mobile and wants to invade her personal space? No. She’ll probably wipe the floor with him. But I also have no doubt that her “take no sh** from anyone” mentality will also make her Milo’s greatest advocate and defender, should he ever need it.

6. She’s this perfect combo of crunchy nature girl meets dress up queen. I know a lot of people will be shocked by this, but I love shoes and designer hand bags. I love to have reasons to get dressed up. I believe that walking out to the mailbox is definitely reason enough to wear lip-gloss and mascara. And I always joked that if I ever had a little girl, I would school her in all things artsy and fashionable. She might reject it and that’s okay, but by golly, she’s going to know the difference between a real Louis Vuitton and a knock off. However, I didn’t always exhibit an affinity for these things. I was the girl running around barefoot in her yard, looking under rocks for lizards and worms and climbing trees- decorating my arms and legs with colorful bruises and scrapes. So it’s no surprise that she loves being outside (really, what little kid doesn’t?) but I must confess that it was a happy moment to watch her pull out my new platform wedges the other day and say, “ooooh pwetty, Momma.” as she attempted to put them on. (That’s my girl).

7. She has a higher pain tolerance than I do. This is an extremely good thing, considering she emulates the Tasmanian devil on her more subdued days. As we were running through the park the other day, I could see it coming and thought perhaps putting her in shorts wasnt the smartest idea. Sure enough, she took a spill on the pavement and I stifled a small gasp, but before I could ask her if she was alright, she popped back up, exclaimed, “you okay??” (I guess she thinks this is what she’s supposed to say whenever she trips and falls since she’s heard us say it) and kept on running, blood oozing down her leg. And the blow to the back of the head that she took the other day which resulted in lots of blood left me clinging to the kitchen countertop to keep from passing out, but by the time she left for the ER with Jake, she was happily walking out to the car, picking up random rocks and chucking them across the yard. 40 minutes after that she was home with a couple of staples in her head and I was still trying to will myself to finish my lunch. Gross.

So those are just a few things that make my Bug the intriguing and nifty little girl she is. And it’s an amazing trade-off: I get to teach her how to tie her shoes and count to ten, and in turn, she teaches me how to live in the moment. Play hard, love without inhibition, laugh at the little things, sing at the top of your lungs, cry when it hurts- but most importantly- always get back up and keep running.

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Have you ever thrown a perfectly good piece of meat at the wall recently? My guess is that you haven’t. But I have. And although it was instantly regretted, it felt pretty darn exhilarating for that one second. So why did I throw a 6 oz. steak at my wall? Why the drama?

Hormones. It’s as simple-and as complicated- as that.

Before anyone should think I make a habit of throwing (read: hurling) food across the room, let me break it down even further: I was ravenously hungry. It was 9 o’clock at night. Jake had been to the store after work to pick up my “filet” which he was told they didn’t sell (seriously, what reputable grocery chain doesn’t sell filets??) He came home, bathed Ella and gave her dinner, all while I had a fussy 3 week old hanging from my left boob- and then my right. and then my left again- all because of this very torturous phenomenon called “cluster feeding.” It was the end of my first week home with both kids and my state of being was catatonic, at best. I had 3 hours of sleep the night before. And 3 hours the night before that…and the night before that…and all the way back for about a month. After a very long and draining week, I was somehow managing to keep my calm, convinced that restoration was coming to me in the form of a juicy filet and a velvety glass of Cabernet.

I sat down, took one bite of the steak, and started to cry. It was tough and chewy. It wasn’t a filet. I decided that I couldn’t drink my wine with a piece of meat that tasted like that. That would be a waste. Of course, if I couldn’t eat the steak or drink the wine, I couldn’t eat the baked potato and green beans either. It all had to go together, damnit. This was the meal I had been salivating over all day and it was ruined. Poor Jake. He did the best he could- it wasn’t his fault. But I could feel the anger welling up in me. (Apparently, I don’t cry over spilled milk, but I have the surprising ability to go ape shit over my red meat. Go figure). So when the bulging vein on my forehead appeared, my sweet husband quickly offered to go out and pick up another steak for me.

But I suddenly realized I had to leave. I had to get out. I didn’t want him to go get me a steak. It wasn’t about the food anymore. Sure, I wanted to sit down and enjoy a nice steak dinner and a movie while the babies slept, but I also wanted to be able to keep my eyes open past 8:30 p.m. I wanted to be able to run out to Target to get toilet paper and Tylenol without taking 45 minutes to pack up the kids, load them into the car and make it home before Milo screamed his head off needing to eat. I wanted to not smell like sour milk. I wanted jeans that could hide my post-partum muffin top. Even more, I wanted the muffin top to magically disappear, along with the stubborn 15 extra pounds hanging around my thighs. I wanted to be able to use the bathroom by myself or disappear into our bedroom to fold clothes without being followed. I wanted sleep. Sweet, beautiful, elusive sleep. Precious REM cycles. I wanted to feel like I wasn’t failing at this “being a mom to two kids” thing. I wanted validation. I wanted to know that at some point, it HAD to get better.

I decided in that instant, I didn’t want him to go get me a steak. I wanted him to go get me my life back.

It was almost as if my hand involuntarily reached down to my plate and chucked it before I could even tell myself to stop. And so the tough, chewy steak ricocheted off my wall, leaving a T-bone shaped A-1 stain above the kitchen sink and I proceeded to storm out of the house in tears, (begging the question- who was the real 2 year old in the house?) I got in the car and drove-not entirely sure where I was going- and had a good, ugly cry- you know, the kind with uncontrollable sobs and hiccups and mascara stains all down my neck and shirt. Several minutes later, I eventually arrived at my senses- and at the closest Outback Steakhouse. (I still really wanted steak). While I was waiting for my order, I waited for the guilt to subside. First, that I had acted like a 2 year old and actually thrown my food. And then there was all the mom guilt- those voices that show up to kick you while you’re already bruised and bleeding. “You thought you could handle 2 kids. You thought you were ready. You’ll never be enough for them both. You’re destined to buy stock in waterproof mascara because you’ll probably be crying every day for the next 6 months. Your husband could never find you attractive looking like this…” I thought surely Jake was pissed that I had stormed out like that. He was probably just as fed up with me as I was fed up with me, if not more. I was almost afraid to go back home.

And then I got the text. “Are you okay?”

He wanted me to come home. He wasn’t angry. He just wanted me to be home.

I picked up my order and drove back in silence. When I walked in, my mess had already been cleaned up and the steak was resting in the garbage can, where I should have thrown it to begin with. I sat down to eat in silence, unable to think of an apology that could possibly make up for the way I had acted. Before any words could come out, the tears interrupted them all over again. Without a word, he reached over and pulled me to him and I realized that nothing else about that night really mattered anymore. Because if I have learned anything about this life I have made with my husband- and this life that we’re building with our children- it’s that there is room to mess up. There is room to bawl your eyes out and be scared. And come to find out, there’s even room enough in our tiny kitchen to test the stain-resistance of our walls. Who’d have guessed?

So these hormones might be here in abundance, but so is love. But love will still be here in abundance long after the hormones have disappeared, and that’s all that really matters at the end of the day. And as for sleep? Well, I’m told that it will return in abundance at some point too. I just hope it will be sometime before they start high school…

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I’m about half-way into my humongo cup of coffee and feeling somewhat coherent, so I figure now might be a good time to conjure up Milo’s birth story before the sleep deprivation and postpartum memory-suppressing hormones rob me of the remaining details. {I love my french press. Just need to give it a shout-out. Moving on….}

I never wrote Ella’s birth story out. It was such an incredible and life-changing experience that I *swore* I couldn’t ever forget it. Then, reality hit like a ton of bricks (or should I say, “like a spinal tap”) when I was lying on the cold O.R. table, feeling my whole body slipping away from my own control and I quickly began to realize there were, in fact, quite a few things I didn’t remember {read: chose to repress} from when she was born. As I was feeling the warm numbness take over my legs and the heavy weight on my chest from being flat on my back, the room started to spin and I broke out into a sweat and started to feel very sick. I muttered something to the effect of, “Why is this happening…? I don’t remember any of this with my daughter…” And my sweet anesthesiologist gently stroked my hair and said, “Of course you don’t remember any of this, honey. That’s why you’re back here again.” She laughed to herself like she had just delivered the best punch line and I decided I might one day be able to laugh at it when I finally got the feeling back in my diaphragm or maybe by Milo’s first day of Kindergarten.

This story will be somewhat shorter than Ella’s, and probably not nearly as exciting, since I didn’t have the 20 hour labor prior to the c-section like I did almost 2 years ago. But here are the bare bones, as well as my very NON-medical interpretation of them.

1). “Your c-section is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. Please be here at 5:30 a.m.”

Interpretation: “Because we want to pump you full of enough fluid to make your ankles look like sausages and make your chin disappear into your neck. And while we’re doing this, we’ll be asking you questions about every known virus and infection you’ve had since you were two and poking you repeatedly in the hand in an attempt to get a blood sample. This will actually only take about 45 minutes, but we thought it would be fun for you to get up at 4:30 and get here extra early because our beds are just THAT comfortable.

2). “Okay, we’re ready to take you to the O.R.”

Interpretation: But we won’t be wheeling your bed in like last time or even taking you by wheelchair. No, no. That’s too boring. Instead, we’ll make you walk down the hall and flash your crack to everyone you pass and maybe even trip over your own IV bag. {We’ll all laugh behind your back and tell you it happens to everyone else, too}. And if you weren’t already shaking from nerves, you’ll be shaking from the meat locker-like temperature of the operating room. Then, we’ll strip you of even more security by asking your husband to wait outside while we insert a long needle into your back, BUT we’ll give you a squishy pillow to hold onto in his place.

3). “You’re gonna feel a tiny sting.”

Interpretation: Really? Was *that* a bee that just stung me?? Because I stepped on a bee with my bare feet when I was three and I barely noticed it. So, dear nurse, although I realize it wouldn’t be too prudent to tell your patients, “hey- you’re about to feel like a snake is sinking it’s teeth into your spinal column,” I’d still like to say: Tiny sting, my @$$.

4). “Just lay back and relax.”

Interpretation: Mmkay, sure, I’ll do that. You go ahead and strap down my arms while I lie flat on my back and feel like I’m suffocating. And I’ll have you know, when you just poked me with that sharp object to make sure I couldn’t feel anything, I FELT IT. {Enter panic mode here}. But go ahead and cut me open and I’ll just “lay back and relax.” Oh, and did I mention that I have this insane fear of vomiting? I did? Okay, well, I’m about to tell you again, because the room is starting to spin and I’m feeling a little too warm and I think I might be sick. I NEED MORE ZOFRAN. Where is my husband? Why do I feel like I can’t breathe? Don’t hand me that basin to puke in. (And for God’s sake, why do you give your patients a tiny pinto-bean sized plastic dish to throw up in? Who has that kind of aim??) GIVE ME MORE ZOFRAN. I realize that it’s just another day, just another section for you all as you stand over my entrails and talk about the recent Superbowl, but seriously, can we get to the part with the screaming baby? K, thanks.

5). “Lots of pressure now…”

Interpretation: “You thought you couldn’t breathe earlier, but just wait. Now we’re actually going to push and pull and stretch things and your lungs are going to momentarily come up into your throat.” {But oddly enough, I still found myself grateful l wasn’t having to use those over-stretched muscles to actually push him out}.

6). 8:06 a.m. February 9th 2011.

Interpretation: What would normally be an average minute on an average day now becomes a defining moment that I’ll remember the rest of my life- just the way I remember 7:49 p.m on June 13, 2009 as my Ella-bug’s voice pierced the air and I finally crossed the threshold into motherhood. One minute earlier and my world was violently spinning and I couldn’t catch my breath and then suddenly, everything around me stopped. He was on the outside. He was real. He was okay. Pink and mad and screaming his little lungs out for his perfect apgars. (Such a little over-achiever already). I felt myself breathe deep and relax- for the first time in a long 10 months. My son, my little My-Ry, born on my dad’s birthday- arrived right on time. Not a second too early, not a second too late.

8:06 a.m. and I became a mommy again, crossing a new kind of threshold- one that promised I would be enough, have enough and love more than enough- two times over. My heart has never been so full.

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We’ve arrived at our last weekend as a family of three. And it started abruptly at 6:01 a.m. when my normally good sleeper decided she would throw her binky out of her crib and then talk (read: whine) about it. I guess she figures that since we’re *this* close to having a newborn in our house, we might as well start getting up before we darn well feel like it.

Oh sleep. You’ve been so good to me over the last 16 months. Please don’t forget about me. Please don’t forget about my son. And please don’t forget the fact that you showed up in very large chunks when Ella was only 5 weeks old and that you graced her with your beautiful 7-8 hour presence by 6 weeks. Yes, I know how lucky I was. But I’m asking to be that lucky again. If it’s wrong to hope that this will be a common trait shared between a sister and brother, then I don’t want to be right.

In case you decide to hold out on me, I come armed with the Keurig B70 Platinum edition. 5 cup sizes and brewing strengths. A “brew over ice” option, even.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

(Ok, but seriously, don’t forget about me. Please. Thank you…)

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You don’t even know what’s coming. Right now, all you know is quiet contentment- the warmth and darkness of your now overly cramped living quarters and the gentle swooshing of your Momma’s heartbeat. But in just a few hours, you’re going to be pulled, kicking and screaming (quite literally) into something cold and foreign, with big, bright lights and strange faces and voices and it will all be very overwhelming for you. I want to go ahead and tell you right now that everything will be okay. You might be afraid for a few minutes, but the fear will pass. It always does, sooner or later. Some of those new faces will bundle you up and make you warm and then one of them will carry you over to someone whose voice you’ll recognize. You’ve heard him talk and laugh and sing and play with your sister. His hands will wrap themselves around your tiny, shriveled fingers and it’s these hands that will one day teach you how to hold a baseball and throw a splitter, and how to play an E diminished on the guitar. But these hands will also show you so much more than that- like how to embrace both the beautiful and painful things in life…how to loosen your grip on those things you will want to control and how to hold on tightly to the things that are worth holding on to. This is your Daddy.

He will teach you to live in the moment. And it won’t take much time around him for you to come to understand what compassion is- what it looks, feels and tastes like. He will show you that it’s okay to let your heart break for other people and that being vulnerable with others has the ability to make you come alive. He loves you more than you’ll ever be able to comprehend. I am so excited for you to meet him. And I can say with all of the confidence in the world that he is, and always will be, your biggest fan.

Your Momma has been eagerly awaiting this day too. To say that this has been a bumpy ride for both of us is an understatement. It’s been an emotional and anxious 10 months and I’m sure you’ve been able to sense that. I wish I could’ve changed so much of that for both of our sakes- especially yours- but the truth behind the scary feelings is that they cause us to grow and change and become stronger people. As you grow up, you will be afraid and have your heart broken and feel pain and your Momma will have to fight a very real and overwhelming urge to want to hold you and protect you from those things (you know, until you’re at least 79 years old or so). But there’s a journey ahead for both of us, and it’s called letting go. The time that you’ve spent in my belly is the only time I know I’ll ever truly be able to hold and protect you as much as I possibly can. I’m fully aware that once the doctor puts you in my arms, I’ve already begun to let you go. I’ve already begun to give up control. I’ve already begun to pray harder than I’ve ever prayed in my entire life. I did the same with your sister. And I’m still learning to give up that control, still letting go and pulling close, still praying.

Being Mommy to you and your sister is the best thing I will ever do. I can’t wait to know who you are. To touch you and know that you’re real- that you’re not some very active figment of my imagination for the last 10 months. To hold your precious hands and to kiss each tiny finger and toe and to be thankful that you’re mine. To be grateful I’ve been given the privilege of being your mommy. I can’t wait to see that first crooked little smile- the one that I’ll see in your eyes before it ever makes it’s way to your mouth. And then to see you recognize your big sister and to watch her love you in the way that only she’ll know how. (For the record, she is going to beat you up and boss you around from time to time. And there will be consequences for her actions, of course. But don’t say I never warned you. ;- ) ).

My sweet baby boy: you are loved. You have been hoped for, wanted, dreamt about, prayed over, cried for, celebrated- long before I ever felt you move inside me for the first time, and even more so since then. I love you- more than I did yesterday, but not nearly as much as I will in a few hours.

I’ll see you soon.

Love,

Mommy