You’re not a big reader yet, so this may be wasted on you. If I could figure out how to illustrate this letter with barnyard animals, so that it looks like your favorite book, “The Big Red Barn,” perhaps it would work better. Or if I could somehow have your favorite being in the whole world, Miss Marley (whom you affectionately call “Daddy,” as opposed to what you call your father, “dadadadada”), recite this to you, you might somehow get it. Or if I could write a song to you and perform it with a driving, danceable beat, I know you would at least enjoy it more, and totally groove out, just like you do whenever you hear even the most rudimentary form of music. But all I’ve got is words, and they certainly won’t do this first year of your life justice.
To start with, I have to say that giving birth to you was a bitch. My apologies for the crude language, but describing it any other way would lend it a sophistication and class that just wasn’t there. And the first three months of your presence outside my womb were grueling at best. I definitely questioned our species’ driving desire to procreate. And I still question the evolutionary benefits to having more than one. Our rocky beginnings aside, however, I think we’ve had a pretty awesome last 12 months.
(newborn Sam)
One thing that really is not surprising, and yet still manages to amaze me, is what a smitten, devoted father you have. You don’t have a bigger fan in the world than him. The man skinned both of his knees down to bloody stumps playing your favorite game (chase) around the house. I hope you remember that when you’re 16, and he doesn’t give you that car you want for your birthday. Because I can tell you that when you’re 40 years old, there isn’t a greater sacrifice I can imagine than crawling around on the floor for hours when all you want to do is just sit down forgod’ssakecan’twealljustsitstillforacoupleofminutes?? Ahem.
(Sam, with dad, 4 months)
(newborn Sam)
One thing that really is not surprising, and yet still manages to amaze me, is what a smitten, devoted father you have. You don’t have a bigger fan in the world than him. The man skinned both of his knees down to bloody stumps playing your favorite game (chase) around the house. I hope you remember that when you’re 16, and he doesn’t give you that car you want for your birthday. Because I can tell you that when you’re 40 years old, there isn’t a greater sacrifice I can imagine than crawling around on the floor for hours when all you want to do is just sit down forgod’ssakecan’twealljustsitstillforacoupleofminutes?? Ahem.
You have around nine or ten teeth now (I can’t take an accurate count because you keep biting me). And let me tell you that each and every one of them caused you great pain and annoyance. If it weren’t for budding teeth, I think you would be the perfect baby. I can only hope that you’re not going to get anymore. You seem to be able to chew fine with what you have, and they’re all in front, so you don’t look like a hillbilly or anything. That is my wish for you: to only have 10 teeth.
You were slow to crawl (10 mos.) and never quite picked up the proper form, but you are the fastest baby on the ground that there has ever been. In history. We have independent reports to verify that. Your preschool teachers have been known to take you to other classrooms at school and make you crawl to show of
f your prowess. It’s actually kind of creepy.(Sam, 3 mos.)
You were early to talk, which is kind of surprising I think. Your father is a man of few (but no doubt profound) words, and I thought you might take after him. Right now you can say dada and mama and doggie and yay! Your first word was uh-oh, but I need to tell you something: you don’t use it in the proper context. Uh-oh is when you drop something by mistake. To say uh-oh and then chuck a block at mama’s head is not appropriate usage. Still, I appreciate the head’s up.
I get that the whole world loves a baby. I get that. But I still think you stir a special reaction in people. Your daddy and I are programmed to think you are an exquisite angel, in fact, the platonic ideal of a baby, but what about the grumpy fishmonger at the Harris Teeter? She and your dad used to have words. Angry words. Now she is a cooing, grinning bundle of sweetness every time we approach the fish counter with you. I’m thinking of trading some Sam time in for some 30-count shrimp. And I have to think your pre-school teachers aren’t just being polite when they go on and on and on about what a sweet spirit you have and how you’re always smiling. It’s embarrassing, really. Try to dial the cuteness back a bit, won’t you?
Sam, I am so grateful to have had such a wonderful, healthy, happy first year with you. You’ve really developed such a distinct personality: you love going outside, you hate green beans, you snore, and you always laugh when I laugh, even if you don’t get the joke. I can’t wait to see what the two-year-old Sam is like…I feel privileged just to be along for the ride.
Love,
Mama
(with thanks to Dooce, where I got the idea for a birthday letter)
