Two and a Half.
To my son,
Good lord you are a cute little person. You make me stupid with your cute. (And I don’t care if I’m biased. I should be biased; I’m your mother.) I love your tiny hands and little toes and kissable nose and the consistent mohawk that your hair enjoys becoming. You started grinning back at us in the last few weeks and watching your face crack into a giant smile is my favorite, favorite thing. All of those overused expressions like “he lights up a room!” were clearly first used to describe your smile. (Let’s just ignore the fact that you’re only 12 weeks old. Maybe you’re like Vigo the Carpathian, only the nice guy version?)
Twelve weeks, kiddo. We’ve been swimming as a family in all your newness for twelve weeks. Birdy has adjusted to you with excitement and vigor, wanting to give you bottles and hug you and kiss you all the time, even if you are crusty with spit-up. “I don’t care, mom. I just want to snuggle him.” She’s been waiting for a little brother for a long time and now that you’re here, she’s beside herself with glee. Her first grade teacher knows all about you. So does the the bus driver. And anyone we encounter at the grocery store. Little man, your sister is a fan of yours. Remember that, because by the time you read these letters, she might be battling you fiercely for rights to the bathroom. Forgive her, sweet boy. She’s always been your champion.
We love you, madly and permanently. That’s a sentence with a full stop at the end. Actually, I’m going to end that paragraph here. We love you.
The lack of sleep is a separate issue, though. Kiddo, for about ten weeks you were not the biggest fan of closing your eyes at night. Instead, you preferred to burp and grunt and wiggle throughout the night, either wanting a pacifier or to nurse or to be held or to have looong and intense conversations about the recent political turmoil. I was not okay with the whole routine, and despite showering and getting dressed every day, I was stupid with exhaustion. I cried in the grocery store because I couldn’t find the counter where you purchase fresh fish. I got lost trying to bring something into the basement. My mind was powdered. Only in the last two weeks have you started to grab four hour clips during the night, allowing your parents to finally surface from the bottoms of their coffee cups. Thank you for deciding that nighttime was a good time to rest, because we were starting to crack up.
Breastfeeding is your only source of food at the moment, which I’m very proud of accomplishing because it’s not without significant effort. (Are you reading these letters as a teenager? Is it gross to talk about breastfeeding? If you’re grossed out, skip this paragraph because this discussion is more for the sake of the diabetes stuff. Trust me. Come back in a paragraph.) If I’m not feeding you myself, I’m pumping and trying to build up a stash of milk in the freezer for days when I’m traveling for work. It’s important to me, for a few reasons, that I breastfeed exclusively as long as I can and I have no plans of stopping anytime soon. Thankfully, the post-feeding or post-pumping blood sugars have become a little more predictable and I’m not tanking with hypoglycemia all day long. Considering buying stock in Juicy Juice for a while, though. And just as thankfully, you take a bottle and bounce back to breast without any issue at all, so that concept of nipple confusion isn’t a factor in our house. (Yes, I said nipple. NIPPLE. I told you to stop reading this paragraph, love.) I’m glad you take bottles without issue, though, because it took you a fair amount of time to get back to your birth weight, and you are still a little on the petite side.
We’ve had a lot of questions about your “internet moniker,” and to be honest, your sister spent almost six months as BSparl before she became tagged as Birdy. I don’t want to force a nickname on you, but Guy Smiley seems to be what we’re calling you these days. Your smile is so sweet. And maybe someday you’ll host a gameshow for Muppets. Who knows! The world is your weird, little oyster.
For now, you remain my littlest friend. My last little friend. And this month, you’ll take your first work trip with me and I’ll have a chance to introduce you to some of my friends in the diabetes community. I’ll say, “This is my son,” and my heart will swell with pride when you burp your hellos.
I love you, sweet boy. Always, always, always.