happy birthday to you

Muffin Soup,

Yes, here is another letter from me to you, Scrappy Doo. (If you haven’t figured it out by now, Mama likes to write. And it’s much easier to do this than try and whisper these sweet things into your ears because right now you have no intentions of ever snuggling with me again. As soon as you got mobile, you would sooner gnaw on the end of a laptop cord than tuck into the crook of my arm to read You Are My Cupcake.)

Today you are one year old. And do you know what that means to me? It means Holy Sh-t. I have completely forgotten a whole year of my life.

Oh fine, yes, I’m exaggerating. But, oh my sweet girl, can you believe it? One day you’re curled in a hot ball on my chest sleeping all day, mewing all night while I try not to cry and scream at the same time, and now you’re syllables away from calling me a nerd. I can stand at the edge of a room and beckon you like a dog to follow me. You crawl like a bullet shot out of a gun. You find the molecule of dirt on the floor that I missed with the vacuum and pick it up with a precise little pincer grip.

I could watch you explore your new world forever. The way you cock your head when you find a new thing you’re not supposed to be touching or putting into the black jagged hole that is your mouth absolutely kills me. (PS – my right nipple would wish you a happy birthday but it’s still scarred both physically and emotionally from that love bite.) Your whole head is a sweet nugget, fragrant with baby soap and whatever food you’ve dramatically shellacked into it, that I would gladly fit into my whole mouth if I could.

But enough about you. Let’s talk about Mama for a bit shall we? As much as I thought walking down the aisle to get married felt like a surreal “I’m in a movie about me getting married right now,” this year with it’s extensive and intensive memory loss, emotional highs and desperate lows, and total 360 in my sense of humor, patience and maternal fever has led me to realize that it’s absolutely futile to think you won’t turn into your own Mama eventually. I just need to learn how to run marathons and floss my teeth with my hair and my transformation will be complete.

A full year of sleep deprivation is not anything I would wish on anybody. Except for you one day, of course. In 14 years I will gleefully jumpstart a motorcycle outside your bedroom window for hours while you attempt to sleep in. And I will burn the sh-t out of my calves doing so and probably develop carpal tunnel syndrome from the revving, but it will all be so worth it. I realized over this year man can live without proper nutrition and being caught up on HBO series, but it will falter and fail and f-ck up huge if you take away a solid chunk of sleep. It’s cruel, really. But what sleep you do get is like having an orgasm while being Swedish massaged, eating caramel corn and watching Ryan Gosling play tic tac toe with puppies.

I’m sorry for the mistakes and missteps. I got awfully busy feeling sorry for myself at times and forgot to enjoy sunny moments with you in our old neighborhood. Even though I can’t get that time back, man I can be super wistful about it. I’m sorry I didn’t put you in real clothing for the first 26 hours. I’m not sure why the nurses didn’t gently advise me to take you out of the blood spattered green towel you were delivered in and into something (anything!) else, because I was just so delirious that you were here I forgot those details. Oh, except the bacon – I'll never forget the bacon. Hospital bacon is about two steps removed from what I would imagine placenta bacon would taste like. Don’t ever eat it. Just don’t.

I’m also sorry for having kept us away from any Mommy and Me groups. As I would tell anybody within earshot, why would I want to go to those forced gatherings? All we have in common is unprotected sex. It’s not like we had a small microchip inserted into us via forceps that would make us all hand-holding BFF’s weaving dream catchers out of the hair that falls out post delivery. To justify my highschool-ish pre-judgments, you haven’t seen the new moms in the West End. F-ck them and their 28 inch waists and uber functional mountain climbing strollers with 75 educational toys dangling off. Don’t they know the hideous black and grey stroller we bought for you that barely fits into the trunk was rated very highly on the safety scale? You know the one that even if you’re sitting in it wearing a shirt that says “I have a vagina!” you still get called a boy. Yeah, that one.

Yesterday I went back to work and you are now going to be yelling and spraying yogurt at both Grammas for three days a week. I justify my grief by telling myself that it is good for you, good for me, good for us to have some time apart so I can just love you and not be squeezing you in around watching Breaking Bad, laundry, chopping vegetables for dinner and dicking around on my phone.

My darling, I would love to spend another year with you at home. You’re so cool now. Like probably cooler than me, but not as cool as your Pops. Your words are just bubbling under the service. I think and hope so anyways. You’ll fail hard at kindergarten if you’re still pointing at things and yelling “DIE.”

Thank you for making my life a lot harder and infinitely more tiring but showing me how much I am capable of when I am truly needed. My heart beats in time with yours and the last minutes of your day when you let me rock you to sleep with a sweaty noggin, right before you lift your eyebrows and flutter your eyelashes closed, those are the times that will define my happiness for the rest of my life. You are my daughter, the best parts of me and your Pops in a delicious package and I would hammer the eyeballs out of anybody who would dare disagree.

I love you, my girl, and if I could sing you a song I would. Instead I’ll save this letter for you and leave you with this wee slideshow of the best parts of your first 365 days. 


All my love,


{music - Love You So by King Khan and BBQ Show}