Six months ago, today you were born. I was bursting at the seams and weighed in at two hundred-pounds. I wanted you to be a boy so badly I secretly wrote letters to my boy before I knew. Everyone told me that you were going to be a girl and when the woman gave me my ultrasound and told me that I had been right all along, I burst into tears. Being pregnant with you was my most amazing experience. I leaned over and spoke to you every day so you would know my voice. And even in that last month, bedridden, swollen, anxious I adored knowing that you were growing inside of me, my little vine.
I had no idea what to expect and neither did your Dad. We boycotted lamaze class and decided to wing it like the cavepeople, except I wasn't as brave. (Your Dad wasn't either. He almost fainted twice.) After two hours of active labor I succumbed to the epidural (western women's pain is nothing like it was a thousand years ago when painkillers were leaches or whatever.)
With four big pushes you were out. You looked up at me with your huge eyes and I was in shock. I could have sworn we had met somewhere before. You know, before all of this...
I slept with you in my arms in the hospital because I didn't want you to sleep in a plastic thing. I stared at you for days, sleep deprived and totally in awe of your beauty. I talked to you like we were old friends. I cried in your hair and whispered secrets in your ear. You listened and fell asleep while I rubbed your nose.
When you smiled for the first time I couldn't believe that such a thing was possible, a little person, part of me, so new, experiencing such a feat! You were awestruck when your Dad made up songs for you on his guitar and when he played Debussy on the piano you kicked and cooed because you recognized the melody your Daddy played for you every day in the womb. (Reverie was playing when you were born.) Reverie, to daydream and you did. Staring into space, even now, oblivious of people oohing and ahhing and waving at you. Too busy thinking, understanding, dreaming. My thoughtful little boy.
The first time you laughed was when I did bicycle with your little legs. I couldn't believe it and called everyone, wanting then to hear it firsthand but you were shy when I held up the phone and you still are. You only laugh for people you know. I was the same way when I was a baby. I was quiet. I had secrets too.
Some of my favorite times have been waking up with you in the middle of the night and bringing you into bed with us. You snuggle close and fall asleep with your hand on my face. We took you to the Monterey Aquarium at three-months old and you watched the jellyfish for half an hour, waving at the creatures with curious hands. And when I leave you with your Dad, I bring a book of photos with me so I can look at them at stoplights and pine for you. Sometimes I show strangers at parties because I am that mom and one day I'm sure you will roll your eyes at me because I'm so uncool.
And every now and then I sneak into your room and watch you sleep and sometimes you are smiling, dreaming again. And sometimes when you see me get upset you start to cry, because that is what happens when two beings are attached to each other, and it always makes me stop and make a silly face, so that you will laugh, because your happiness matters more than mine does and that is the way it is now.
I love you more every day, my bugsy, my little fish. Today you are six months, little daydreamer, miracle, gentle love. Little nuzzle-dancer, feet-stomping pilgrim, laughing-goose, hoot-owl, head-butting sleepy bear, petit prince. Every day you overwhelm me with joy and wonder. I can't believe you are even real sometimes.