Letter to Dane, 288

Dear Dane,

Hello, angel baby. It’s Mommy.

I have a lot of goofy names for you (Sir Yumminess, Mr. Fuzzyhead, Monkey, Mowgli), but angel baby is the one I use the most. I don’t call you angel baby because I think you’re perfect (although, let’s face it, you are), or because I want to annoy the other 99% of mommies who also think their babies are angels (although I sometimes do). I call you angel baby because even though I’m kind of sarcastic and sometimes the mean girl and usually in a grumpy mood (especially, God knows, with your father), and in general not all that good at religion, you make me believe. That may sound trite and cliche, but thus is the power of you.

When we first brought you home, I was afraid I would break you, and for weeks I wouldn’t set you down because I was afraid you would feel lonely or abandoned. Thinking of you feeling that way made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. You slept on my chest for the fourth and fifth months of your life because I couldn’t stomach the thought of you crying, and when I did finally give in and let you cry, the sound of it made me vomit. To this day I think that might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I was in stage three labor with you for three hours.

I’m the kind of mommy that worries a lot, and although you’re getting big now, I still worry that you aren’t eating enough, or the right things, or sleeping enough, or that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying to stop the anxiety so I don’t pass it on to you, but if you catch me staring at you from the side of your crib or standing behind you in the playroom, please remember it’s only because I want to be perfect, and not because I expect you to be.

You’re fully mobile now, and although you’re still my mellow mushroom you’re fierce, too. You don’t want to lay on my chest anymore, or even let me feed you. Today you spit avocado and peas on your tray and then grinned at me, and I couldn’t even be annoyed because that grin was a combination of how I feel on my best day and the reason I fell in love with your father. You don’t want to snuggle at night anymore, at least with me (…curse you, Puppy), but sometimes when I get you in the morning or up from a nap, you still lay your head in the hollow of my shoulder. I wish I could hold every one of those moments in my heart and in my memory, but already all the things I thought I would remember forever have started to slip away.

There’s no real reason for me to write this letter to you today, except that today is a day like any other day, and that means I got to spend it with you. That means it’s a day better than any other day I had before you were here, and it’s a day in which I get to look forward to spending the rest of my life, God willing, with you in it. You are my love, you are my believe, you are my tiny little smushyface baby and I will always be with you no matter where or how far you go. All you have to do is say the word, little man, and I’ll be there.



ps… This post didn’t start out this way, but it sort of ended up as a PYHO linky to Shell at Things I Can’t Say. Love that place.


2 thoughts on “Letter to Dane, 288

  1. So well said and such a beautiful baby! Don't you just want to smush them so they can stay small forever? Except for the getting up to feed at night. I can do without that!


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