Dear Owen,

The first time I wrote to you more than a year ago, I didn't know your name. I didn't know if you were a boy or a girl (Dada and I decided to keep your sex a surprise) and I didn't know much about you besides the fact that you often got the hiccups and liked to kick the right side of my rib cage. I didn't know that we would labor together for three days to get you here. I didn't know that by the time I finally demanded to go to the hospital, I'd be 10 centimeters dilated and "ready to push," as the midwife told me with surprise on her face.

Shortly after I started pushing, I looked at the nurses and asked, "How long am I going to have to do this?" As you'll find out about me, I like to work to deadline. One of the nurses said, "Go ahead and find out." I was shocked at her suggestion that I put my fingers up in the birth canal, given all that was going on down there, but I did and quickly made contact with your moist, squishy head. Even though we had been together for more than 9 months, it was surreal to feel you there. Holy shit, there's a baby in there!

When you emerged, screaming and slimy, I looked over and saw tears streaming down Dada's face, the first time I had ever seen him cry. He was the one who caught you (spotted by Rachel, the midwife, and two nurses), and he cut your umbilical cord, separating you and me for the first time. Because I was so far along by the time we got to the hospital, there was no time for an epidural. I had 100% natural childbirth, one of the few women to do so these days. I had hoped to birth you drug-free, but I was open to that fact that I may end up demanding something for the pain. Dada sure thought I would.  

During our natural child birthing classes, Dada doubted that I could give birth without drugs because I whine and complain if I get so much as a headache. "You don't have the highest pain threshold, babe," he said. But come to find out, when shit gets real, when the rubber meets the road, I am surprisingly sturdy. "I've never been so proud of you," Dada told me after watching you be born. I think that quality will bode well for us in the future when you turn to me for strength (as I hope you will) when life hits you upside the head as it does to all of us through the years.

Once you were here, I couldn't believe how much black hair you had. Who is that? I couldn't help thinking the first time I saw you. If I hadn't been there myself, I would have thought they mixed up and gave me the baby from the Hispanic couple next door. 

The first time I saw you, I thought I would cry and feel flooded with joy like I had every time we watched a birth video during our child birthing classes. I thought I'd feel a spasm of sobs move up my chest and tears spring to my eyes with uncontrollable force and Dada would look over at me, touch my arm and we'd share a soulful, heartfelt smile. But that's not what happened. 

"I don't feel anything," I whispered to our doula, Juli, after they took you away to give you a bath. I was scared that you felt like an alien to me, that I felt as stunned as a deer you come upon in the clearing of a forest.

"That's normal," Juli assured me. "You've been though a lot, and you haven't slept in three days."

I hoped she was right. And boy, was she ever. Today you feel like mine, all mine (and Dada's too). Tears spring to my eyes when I think about how much I like you, how easy it is to hang out with you, pushing you around town in your stroller, watching you splash in the bath and look over at me and grin, lying next to you on the living room floor as you try to tear apart your play mat. (I'll always love you as your Mama, but liking your child is a whole other story).

Birthday boy

When you were born, you were 8 pounds, 15 ounces, a big boy as they say, and 21 inches long. You have always been a great eater and every time we see the pediatrician, you hold steady in the 90th percentile for weight. "Should we start feeding him less?" we asked Dr. Vijay at your six month appointment, thinking maybe you were getting a little too chubby. "No," she said. "He is healthy and doing great." So we decided not to worry.

You're a good sleeper, too. By six months, you were sleeping through the night for the most part, except when you were teething. Then you'd wake up screaming bloody murder until we gave you a syringeful of baby Tylenol, which seemed to do the trick. You typically take epic morning naps (2-3 hours) and sleep another hour or two in the afternoon.

Since you first smiled at two months old, you've been pretty relentlessly happy. That's the No. 1 thing people say about you, besides how cute you are. "He just seems so happy!" And you are. You love eating bananas and oranges, sucking on my iPhone, feeding plastic balls into your octopus toy, reading your books, unspooling rolls of toilet paper and opening your dresser drawer and throwing all of your clothes on the floor. The dishwasher is a particular fascination for you and you love playing with the clean silverware, which doesn't stay clean for long because at this stage, everything goes in your mouth. Everything.

When you were six months old, we enrolled you in Wiggleworms, a music class for parents and their kids. At first, Dada took you most of the time and then I started taking you when he had to work. The first thing I noticed was how cautious you are in a group. You would sit with me, sometimes reaching for my neck so I'd pull you in closer, as you stared at the other babies shaking maracas and banging on the big drum the teacher put in the middle of the floor. You would survey the mayhem with an expression that seemed to say, What fresh hell is this?

You didn't want to crawl into the middle like some of the other babies and all you wanted to do with your maraca was suck on it. You'd just sit and suck and stare.  And I must admit, I respect that about you. You like to check out a scene before you jump in. You like to stare at a stranger for a good two minutes before you reward him or her with a smile. I think that's a good thing. I don't ever want to be the mom pushing you into the middle like the other kids or ordering you to smile at people you don't know. Take your time, baby, take your time.

Throughout these past 12 months, you've hit every developmental milestone you're supposed to. You started rolling over at 2 or 3 months, sitting up at 4 months, rearing up on your hind legs and rocking back and forth when you were six months old, like you were warning us, "Okay, folks, any day now I'm going to crawl." Then you did, propelling yourself through the condo with your left leg out to the side to give you more leverage on our wooden floors.

I don't like reading parenting books because much like, "What to Expect When You're Expecting," they can just make you crazy with worry. God forbid if your child's not doing something they're supposed to at a certain stage. Reading those books can also make you competitive. That's one thing I've noticed about other parents and something I hope I don't do too much with you -- compare you to other children. "How much did he weigh at his last appointment?" one mom will ask me. "Is he using a sippy cup yet?" another will say. "How long has he been sitting up?" Oy vey. Take your time, baby, take your time.

One of the coolest things about you is your sense of humor. If I make a funny face at you, you'll smile and often laugh. And Owen, there's nothing better than the sound of your laugh. If I could bottle those giggles and sell them, no one in this world would need Prozac. I'll never forget the day when we were playing on the bed and I blew a raspberry on your Buddha belly and you leaned over and blew a raspberry on my leg. I think you were only about six or seven months old and I had no idea how much fun we could have together so early, before you could even walk or talk. Silly me for underestimating you.

So now, dear baby, here we are. We just celebrated your 1st birthday with a family day at the beach and I'm just so grateful that you're here. You're the one who makes us a family. I knew this parenting thing was going to be fun and joyful and touching and all that other Hallmark stuff. Yet somehow you exceeded my biggest hopes, my greatest expectations. I don't know how you did it. And really, you didn't do anything. You are just you. Take your time, baby, take your time.

Love,
Mama