Mama's here.

My little man has some sort of stomach bug, and I've cleaned up (and caught in my bare hands) two particularly disgusting types of bodily fluids within the past 24 hours. Which naturally reminded me that my son is perhaps the only person in the world I would do that for. And so I wrote him a letter. (Also, I feel like I often end up writing these things when he's sick, which makes it seem like he's sick a lot, and he's actually a very healthy child. Having a sick little one just makes me feel like writing, I guess?)

Dear Lucas,

I will confess, my precious love, that I wasn't very patient early yesterday morning when you woke up in an extra cranky mood. You had no symptoms (yet,) and you didn't feel feverish, so I thought it was just a case of "wrong-side-of-the-bed-itis."

Then your crankiness continued, and I finally realized (only after our friends came over and you shared food with their son, of course) that you were sick. I made you a little bed on the floor, and you stayed curled up there all morning, content to be watching Curious George and lying next to mommy.

It wasn't until late afternoon after I thought you were finally feeling better that you threw up - on the carpet at the top of the stairs we were just about to walk down and then into my waiting hands. Daddy and Mr. Ryan brought wet paper towels and a garbage can, and we cleaned up my crying little boy as well as we could.

As I rocked you, stripped down to your onesie at the top of the stairs, you said a phrase that has become your mantra when you're scared or upset or hurting - "Mama's here." I've said it to you dozens (maybe hundreds) of times when you wake up crying or fall down hard. "Mama's here." And now you regularly say it to calm yourself before I even get the chance. "Mama's here." You said it to yourself - and to me - several times throughout the course of the evening. Lying on the floor, feverish head on my lap - "Mama's here." As I changed your diaper while you cried from tired eyes and protested against bedtime - "Mama's here." As I rocked your too-warm little body to sleep - "Mama's here."

You say it to comfort yourself, but I think it comforts me even more. I am your constant. My sleepless nights and long, long days haven't been wasted. You believe that I can fix things. Make things better. Put your world right when everything's going wrong. My presence is your source of contentment. It's a little intimidating at times, but it makes me feel so blessed to be your mommy.

And I will always be here for you, love. Whether you scrape your knee or your problems are too big to be fixed by just a cuddle and a kiss, you can count on me. Mama's here.

Love,
Mama

A letter to my son, at 22 and a half months

On January 3, I got back from an eleven-day trip visiting various family members in three different cities. You haven't heard from me since then because I had a sick toddler who was trapped in the house because of the weather, and I've been recovering from traveling. Believe me when I tell you that I have some stories coming about our trip... especially because the first part of it was me flying alone with a toddler. Oh, man... there will be stories. But first, this is a letter I started at 5:30am ish the morning we left to come home. Lucas had a pretty bad cough for most of our trip, and he woke himself and me up at 4:15am with a coughing fit, and then couldn't/wouldn't go back to sleep. Dan was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, so I brought Lucas into bed with me, and we talked. For an hour. I was sleep deprived and not looking forward to a day of traveling and had a slight cold, but I actually ended up kind of enjoying it. So... here's what I was thinking while talking to my toddler in what should've been the middle of the night.

This picture was not taken the morning I wrote this letter. But you probably already figured that out.

Dear Lucas,

It's too early to be awake, and the first thoughts I'm having with my eyes still closed are "Please, please let him go back to sleep" followed closely by "Please, please don't let him throw up from coughing... again." Yesterday I was able to prolong a too-short nap by bringing you into bed with me, where you slept cuddled up against me for another two hours. But this morning that plan doesn't work. You are awake, and you want to talk.

You were such an early talker, and now you know so many words. Words that you want to use all the time. You narrate everything you're doing, prefacing each statement with your own pronunciation of your name: Ducas. As you wiggle happily in bed with me, you keep up a running commentary. "Ducas Mama sleeping!" (Even though we clearly aren't. Heads on the pillow is enough for you.) "Sleeping 'gether! Pillow! Blanket!" After you get tired of being still, you move all around the bed, cautioning yourself with "Careful, Ducas! Careful, Ducas!" every time you get too close to the edge.

You say "hungry-gy?" And when I tell you, no, it's not time to eat, it's time to sleep, you respond with, "Yep! Why?" (I'm pretty sure you don't actually know what why means yet, but it doesn't stop you from repeating the phrase "what? why?" on a regular basis.) You decide that the only way you can be comfortable is if your arms are around my neck and your entire torso is on my face, and when you pull on the headboard and then declare it to be "heavy," I am too muffled for you to hear me shush you.

And around 4:45 when I've finally given up on getting any more sleep before the alarm goes off at 5:20, it occurs to me that the older ladies who say "enjoy every moment" (in a tone that indicates that they've definitely forgotten what it feels like to be vomited on) might be on to something. Because - although you will hopefully not always wake me up at ridiculous hours - you will also outgrow the desire to be held in my arms for hours on end. And right now, before the sun or any well-rested human is awake, I can hold you as close as I want for as long as I want. Right now, I am your favorite person who ever lived. And when I remember that this is fleeting, I can enjoy it in spite of the lack of sleep.

I love you, "Ducas." I'm so glad I'm your mommy. But I think I should warn you that between how much you talk and how much I talk, there's a good chance that we might drive your daddy crazy.

Love,
Mommy

Feel free to click here out of sympathy for my lack of sleep.

A letter to my son, at nearly 21 months

At least three times a week, I think "I need to document this in the baby book!" And then I don't. So, here's a letter to Lucas... just so I don't forget how precious he is at this very moment.

11-12-13

Dear Lucas,

Oh my goodness, baby boy! Never in my life did I think that I could be so impressed by someone who can't even put on his own socks yet.

You are hilarious and creative and oh so smart. Every time we're out in public, at least one person comments on how well you speak - how clearly you pronounce your words, and how many words you know. Out of all of the many, many words you say, some of my favorites are:

    "Sure!" (and when you're very emphatic, "Yeah-kay! Sure!" as in, "Lucas, do you want some cheese? "Yeah-kay! Sure!")

    "Huggin!" Said any time you want a hug, which is very often. You even love hugging me from your high chair with one arm while you feed yourself with the other.

    "Cryin." You always announce to me when you've been crying, even if it's a fake cry and you're doing it in front of me. It's like a play-by-play of your emotions. As your emotional mommy, I can appreciate that.

    "Toot!" You also announce when you, well, toot. It's kind of hilarious.

    "Misi!" Lucas for "excuse me."

    "Fun!" Any time you are having fun, you let us know. It's adorable.

    "Cited!" Lucas for "excited." Which you are, often! Like the other day, when you were on the phone with your grandma. She asked you what you ate for dinner, and when you said "noodles," she responded with "I'm having noodles, too." Your eyes got wide, and you said "Cited! Cited!"

You can count to ten, and I have no idea if that makes you advanced or not, because I refuse to look it up; I know I'm going to think you're a tiny genius no matter what the "experts" say. You love Elmo and kitties, lawnmowers (and pretending that any box large enough for you to sit in is a lawnmower), other kids, talking on the phone (for real or for pretend), and jumping. You are definitely a mamma's boy, but you also love your daddy like crazy and try to be like him in ways that make me laugh and smile a little bigger than my face can handle.

You love books. If you are quiet for long periods of time when left to yourself, it's almost always because you're looking at books (often while sitting in a box or basket.) I'm sure that this will get me into trouble someday because I'll assume you're reading when in reality you're throwing things in the toilet, but I love that you already love to read... just like mommy.

You (finally) enjoy bedtime, and you talk to yourself in your crib long after I put you to bed. You have more energy than you (or I) know what to do with, and you love to walk back and forth across the living room while holding my (and/or Daddy's) hand. You will reach towards our hands, say "walkin? walkin?" and then when we put out our hands for you to grab, you will speed walk and intentionally fall over while laughing.

Some days you make me realize that I really need to learn to have more patience, but I couldn't wish for a more lovable teacher. I'm so glad that I get to be your mommy, little love. I'm looking forward to seeing all of the amazing things you'll do in your life.

I love you. Always.

Love,
Mommy

A letter to my son, at 17 and a half months.

I wrote this the other day and then didn't get around to posting it because Lucas woke up from his nap a very angry elf. I haven't really edited it, so, you know... grace, please.

8/4/2013

Dear Lucas,

We’ve had our fair share of tears, you and I, and I know there are more to come. I’ve had some moments in the middle of the night that I wouldn’t relive, even if someone paid me. I know it sounds better to say that I’ve loved every minute of motherhood, but the truth is that there have been moments where motherhood didn’t feel so great. Temper tantrums and sleepless nights and cranky days that I’m glad are over.

I wouldn’t rewind time, but there are plenty of moments that I’d love to pause it for an hour or so. Today you have a slight fever: not a legitimate fever that “counts” as far as the thermometer is concerned (99.6), but a fever that your mommy can feel when she touches your forehead and warm tummy. Even your daddy, the ER doctor, pointed out that studies have shown that mommies are almost always right about their children having a fever based on the warmth of their skin alone, and he’s more inclined to believe me than the thermometer. You seem healthy otherwise, besides being slightly more emotional than normal and a bit tired. I put you down for your nap half an hour early because you were too tired to wait any longer – so tired that we skipped the bedtime stories and went straight to rocking in our chair in the darkened room while I sang “Jesus Loves Me.” Your head was on my shoulder, and after tossing and turning, you found a comfortable spot – head on my shoulder against my neck, belly pressed against my chest, legs straddling my waist, arms spread wide, sippy cup still clutched in your hand. I thought you had fallen asleep, but when I finished the third verse and rocked you to the soft whir of the air purifier, your little voice asked “gi?” – your version of “again?” And I sang all three verses again slowly, while your breathing slowed and then turned to soft snores. I rocked you longer than I knew was necessary, and I briefly considered rocking you for your whole nap, but you sleep longer if you’re in your crib, and you need the rest. But as I rocked you, I thought that I would like to just pause the moment for a little longer so that I could savor the feeling of your twenty-four pounds relaxed against me while you slept.

Last night after a full and busy day with some friends, I took you out of the car, dressed in orange striped pajamas, and you asked for your daddy, whom you hadn’t seen all day because of a 12-hour shift at the hospital. He came to hug you, and then I said I would put you to bed, and you pushed against me with one arm while reaching for your daddy with the other and said “no!” So your daddy put you to bed instead, and my heart almost burst at how much I love you both and how much you love each other. I would’ve paused that moment, too. You wanting your daddy, and me watching the two of you walk toward the house with your head on his shoulder.

Although I don’t want to do them over again, I can even look back at the sleepless nights with something approaching fondness. There were a few times that I was so desperate to get every second of sleep I could that after the fourth or fifth or tenth time I got up to nurse you, instead of walking back to the bedroom I share with your daddy, I curled up on the floor of your room on a pile of blankets. I was miserable at the time, but looking back, I can’t help but smile at the exhausted mommy sleeping on the floor. At least once, when you were eight months old and teething, you slept on the floor with me, on top of a blanket and my arm, which had lost all feeling from your weight on top of it, but which didn’t seem worth the risk of waking you in order for it to have sensation below the elbow.

So this letter is me pausing time for just a minute so I can cherish all of your toddler sweetness. You Skype-ing with Aunt Ginny and cousin Jacob today and crying because Jacob (or “Juba,” as you called him) left the screen so you couldn’t see him anymore. You laughing a deep, can’t-breathe belly laugh at some of the things that you currently find hilarious – kisses and tickles and peekaboo and being chased and our little joke that we say at least ten times a day: me saying, “Lucas, I’m going to love you even when you’re big and stinky,” and you responding with an enthusiastic “Pee-YEW!” You kissing books and toys and my feet with a loud “mmmm-MA!”

Keep growing and changing, my baby love. But maybe slow down just a little, please. 

I love you with all my heart and then some.

Love,

Mommy