Amateur Letter Writer

Yes, I'm a mom. Yes, I have a blog. Here is the obligatory letter to my child who can't read, published for the rest of the world to see.

Corinne,

Even just typing out your name still amazes me. I have a kid - and her name is Corinne! Who ever saw that one coming? Your dad named you. It was tough finding a first name that went well with the middle name "Mary" (that was a must - I'm named after my mother and BOTH of my grandmothers... or maybe I'm just really self-absorbed and want a name-sake), and he didn't like my favored "Penelope" (Penny for short). We (I) hemmed and hawed at the hospital (I thought you looked more like a "Jordan"); but it was I who wrote down your name not only the birth certificate form our last night there, but also on the newspaper release (you didn't know how you were a famous Labor Day Weekend baby in the local paper?) the day of your birth.

We took you home, where we were locked out, because we gave my parents both of our house keys. That was fun. You were hungry, your other grandparents were actually there decorating the yard, and the neighbors had friends arriving to visit. Once we settled, I left you with your Aunt Christy and I slept. And you slept. Have I mentioned how much I love our village?

So you were a terrible sleeper, and I was a terrible nurser, but whatever. Now you'll eat anything in your path (including, but not limited to, cardboard, paper towels, apples, stray Kix, peas, and broccoli heads).

You like to rip things open with your teeth, like some crazy medieval king ripping into a leg of meat.

You also hate juice, and will only drink milk from a bottle. As a result from all of this, I now have a post-partum, post-nursing body! Good times. But I digress, this is about you (really!), and not me.

Your dad is still in charge of bath time, but I'm the lucky duck who gets to rock you before bed. Lately, though, you'd rather play (cry) in your crib for a few minutes than sit still with me. But to make up for it, just last night, you woke up crying around 4:30 AM and I got to cuddle with you! You sure do have a funny way of making me feel grateful for the oddest things.

You are now officially a toddler. And that's exactly what you do! You toddle around - a mix of hesitant steps and head-down, ram-speed crawling make up your main modes of transportation. Your baby steps are like a planned free-fall: you know where you're going and exactly where to stop the motion control and just land in your predetermined destination.

You astound me as an example of human development. Weren't you just learning to roll over? And now you're repeating words and actions? Oh, and whistling? Where did that come from?

I get a kick out of your stubbornness - just when we feel like we've taught you something new, you won't repeat it when we ask you to in front of others. I think you get some kind of twisted satisfaction from performing only on your terms and making us look like giant idiots. I also think this might be a sign of things to come.

You are quite the generalist - every fruit at the store is an apple, every picture is of daddy, and every 4-legged anmial gets a "woof woof." You are also polite - each speakerphone call merits a hello, and anything that should be fun deserves a hearty "wheee-ooo---wee." You fake laugh better than anyone I know; and while at the moment I find it adorable, I hope I can help you be confidant enough in your own skin that you don't feel a need to always fit in with the crowd.

I still struggle accepting your growth out of the infant stage - I forget that you actually need something to cover your feet in a public place, useless baby spoons litter the diaper bag, and I finally went through your clothes to pack up everything that is too small. I'm actually glad you're so bald - it makes you feel more like a baby and less like a little kid.

I also struggle with the thought of having more children. I can't imagine loving another person the way I love you. I feel very satisfied with being your mother - I love where we are in our life right now. I also know that it might be a little selfish to not have a sibling for you - no one to turn to when all the adults in your life overwhelm you, no one on which to blame a mess, no one to perhaps give you nieces or nephews or cousins for your own children. I've discussed this concept with many, and know that it is indeed possible to have more than one child and love them in the same capacity. Maybe one day.

Your dad and I pray every night in gratitude for the joy you bring to our lives - and I know you bring happiness to the lives of countless others. You're the best, Corinne. To summarize, I can't help but think of an awesomely cheesy Rod Stewart song:

For the morning sun in all it's glory,
Meets the day with hope and comfort too,
You fill my life with laughter, somehow you make it better,
Ease my troubles, that's what you do.
There's a love less defined,
And its yours and its mine,
Like the sun.
And at the end of the day,
We should give thanks and pray,
To the one, to the one.
Have I told you lately that I love you?
Have I told you there's no one else above you?
Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness,
Ease my troubles, that's what you do.

Be rest assured, I will continue to amaze you with how incredibly lame and sappy I can be. It will surprise you at times, but doesn't everyone like surprises, anyway? I know I'm surprised at how much you've changed my life, and how I can't really remember what life was like before you. It's like the past two decades have been random events just slowly evolving to this pivitol moment in time. To be sure, while the next two decades will be a whilwind, there's not much that I'd rather be doing than being your mom.