Letter to D

Dear D, as you turn 11 months old,

I swore I would savor it this time, being a mom to a baby. I would cherish every moment, inhale every scent (well, the clean-baby ones, not the just-pooped-green-beans ones), not let it pass by in a blur. And, of course, I did. I kissed your tiny fingers, and I patted your back as you fell asleep and I dressed you in adorable outfits, even when we weren't going anywhere at all, I got excited over each new tooth, cheered as you took your first steps, and spoke to you like this, "This is a cow, a cow says 'moo,' this cow is black." We read books and sang songs and went swimming and took a sign language class.

But it passed too quickly, all the same. Partly because this parenting thing, I mean, in case no one mentioned before, is a lot of work. It's changing diapers and diapers and more diapers and washing bottles and picking up the same toys every day and how long has it been since you've had a bath anyway? But also because this time I realized that it just happens. I don't check every day to see if any new teeth have come in, because the teeth just come in, without my input. And when they do, I'll notice. I didn't hold your hands and force you to walk around the house, because the walking just happened, all on its own. Your first word was "Daaaaa," by which you mean Dad, even though I'd been saying, "Mama, mama, say maaaamaaaa" for months.

And I'm so proud of you, and all that you've done, what every baby does, but magical and amazing because you're my baby and it matters all that much more to me. But I also understand now, that you exist outside of me, and the older you get the more that will be true. And it all, every step, every word, feels a little bit like letting go.