Dear Elise,
You are three years old. A big girl now. You tell funny stories, sound out letters, and help out around the house. But since this is the first letter that I've written to you since I started this blog, let's go back and remember how you began.
You started life with a jolt. Or should I say a trickle. At 36 weeks (1 month early) I woke at 5am to discover that my water had broken. Your Daddy woke to hear me giggling in the bathroom and he says that he knew right away that was the sound announcing your early arrival.
At 8:20 am, you arrived in this world. While you struggled to adjust from a warm, comfy womb to this bright, cold world we adjusted from being a couple to being parents. I could not believe that you were so beautiful and so very real. A 6 pound miracle swaddled in a duck-covered blanket.
We kept the airlines busy that day with the quick arrivals of KayKay, Aunt Summer, and Aunt Amber. Grandpa Greg followed shortly along with Ryan and Sharlene Hayton. We oohed, we ahhed, and I cried with amazement too.
And we began to gain confidence as we adjusted to parenthood.
But you did not adjust so well to life on the outside. At 3 in the morning your temperature and blood sugar levels began to drop. They whisked you off to the NICU, and any confidence I had fled away too.
You recovered pretty well. Warming blankets and a bottle of sugar water had you feeling better soon. But in the NICU you stayed, for a week.
And then you came home. You were yellow with jaundice, wore a brace for congenital hip displasia, and turned your head to one side because of torticollis. And you were beautiful. And still very real.
The next few months were filled with tears (yours), adoration (mine), more crying (yours), sleeplessness (mine), and helplessness (yours and mine). Neither of us knew how to nurse. No one knew how to get you to fall asleep. And I didn't know how to sustain the pain of having a piece of me out of my womb, out of my protection, and out of my control.
You learned to nurse, as your chubby cheeks showed. You learned how to put yourself to sleep, as my diminishing dark eye-circles showed. And I began to get used to the pain and joy of watch a piece of myself become a whole separate person. But I only just began to get used to it. Sometimes I still wish that I was a kangaroo mama and could tuck you back in my pouch, away from the pain and rock you with the rhythms of my heart.
But I can't. So I rocked you on the glider and sang you lullabies. Your tears faded. Your voice grew. You sang us songs of babbling and your favorite word, "aboo." We cheered every new accomplishment. You were the center of our budding family. Adored doesn't quite capture it. With no cousins to compete with on either side, you were the star entertainment.
And you still are. Now you have Zion as your partner, but you are no less adored.
I've struggled with what to write to describe you on your 3rd birthday. But one letter just can't capture it. This entire blog is one big letter about you. And Zion. And Daddy. And me. If you want to know about you as a 3 year old, just pull up a blog entry and read about the amusing things that you say and do or the places we explore. And I hope that through these stories about you that you can hear my voice. My voice laughing at your sayings and still adoring you.
All my love,
Mommy
You started life with a jolt. Or should I say a trickle. At 36 weeks (1 month early) I woke at 5am to discover that my water had broken. Your Daddy woke to hear me giggling in the bathroom and he says that he knew right away that was the sound announcing your early arrival.
At 8:20 am, you arrived in this world. While you struggled to adjust from a warm, comfy womb to this bright, cold world we adjusted from being a couple to being parents. I could not believe that you were so beautiful and so very real. A 6 pound miracle swaddled in a duck-covered blanket.
We kept the airlines busy that day with the quick arrivals of KayKay, Aunt Summer, and Aunt Amber. Grandpa Greg followed shortly along with Ryan and Sharlene Hayton. We oohed, we ahhed, and I cried with amazement too.
And we began to gain confidence as we adjusted to parenthood.
But you did not adjust so well to life on the outside. At 3 in the morning your temperature and blood sugar levels began to drop. They whisked you off to the NICU, and any confidence I had fled away too.
You recovered pretty well. Warming blankets and a bottle of sugar water had you feeling better soon. But in the NICU you stayed, for a week.
And then you came home. You were yellow with jaundice, wore a brace for congenital hip displasia, and turned your head to one side because of torticollis. And you were beautiful. And still very real.
The next few months were filled with tears (yours), adoration (mine), more crying (yours), sleeplessness (mine), and helplessness (yours and mine). Neither of us knew how to nurse. No one knew how to get you to fall asleep. And I didn't know how to sustain the pain of having a piece of me out of my womb, out of my protection, and out of my control.
You learned to nurse, as your chubby cheeks showed. You learned how to put yourself to sleep, as my diminishing dark eye-circles showed. And I began to get used to the pain and joy of watch a piece of myself become a whole separate person. But I only just began to get used to it. Sometimes I still wish that I was a kangaroo mama and could tuck you back in my pouch, away from the pain and rock you with the rhythms of my heart.
But I can't. So I rocked you on the glider and sang you lullabies. Your tears faded. Your voice grew. You sang us songs of babbling and your favorite word, "aboo." We cheered every new accomplishment. You were the center of our budding family. Adored doesn't quite capture it. With no cousins to compete with on either side, you were the star entertainment.
And you still are. Now you have Zion as your partner, but you are no less adored.
I've struggled with what to write to describe you on your 3rd birthday. But one letter just can't capture it. This entire blog is one big letter about you. And Zion. And Daddy. And me. If you want to know about you as a 3 year old, just pull up a blog entry and read about the amusing things that you say and do or the places we explore. And I hope that through these stories about you that you can hear my voice. My voice laughing at your sayings and still adoring you.
All my love,
Mommy
Priceless. And oh, SO precious!
ReplyDeleteSo beautiful. I love your words, Brooke! Thank you for sharing them!
ReplyDelete