Dear Noah - 28 Week

Dear Noah,

Hello sunshine. You are now (lucky number) seven months old. Nearly a toddler, nearly a boy.

Your doctor, Doctor Chris Ibey said that you were perfect, he has no concerns with your development.

At your six month appointment, the one with the dreaded needles - the one that you handled like a trooper - your dad and I struggled not to brag about you.

We wanted to rant and rave about what a brilliant little person you you've become, that we're certain you're far above and beyond the development of a six month old.

And you are.

You try to walk now; have been for weeks now. To help you along, I bought you a pair of Converse-style shoes velcro straps.

Your tiny little hands grasp my fingers, as you shuffle one leg in front of the other. Sometimes you grin at Daddy or Auntie Keli, who's encouraging you to walk to them just a few steps ahead. Other times you cry in frustration; you're already like me, wanting to do it right, perfectly the first time.

We've noticed a tooth poking through your gums. It hasn't quite broken through, but your rosy cheeks indicate your not too far off from having your first tooth.

Your little personality is starting to shine through in a big way. You're a trickster, so smart and keen. If we leave your line of sight, you'll often whine or cry, but quickly forget about us if your favourite musical toy is within reach.

This last month you've taken to waking in the middle of the night, not for feeding any more (thank goodness), but for a chat with your "friends" in the inky darkness of your room. You coo, gurgle, gargle and squeal, raising your chubby legs straight in the air and let them fall with a thud on your bed.

You're a curious, nosey little man, so nosey in fact, that you fight sleep. Those gorgeous eyes of yours (fringed with long curling lashes) roll back in your head but fight with all your might to keep awake - in case you miss something.

Food has begun to rule your world and I love to watch you lean forward in your highchair, mouth wide (or lips pursed to slurp off the spoon) excited to eat. This month we've introduced green beans, mangos, granny smith apples and chicken to your diet - I've even snuck you a taste or two of Dairy Queen ice cream - a yummy treat.

Although you're changing rapidly, so quickly that I start writing these notes to you weeks in advance so that I can remember all you've done, I've been hanging on to what parts of you still remain my baby.

Most weekday mornings I now get up with you and have begun bringing a bottle with me. I call to you from the doorway: "Who's in here? Who's here?" You kick with excitement at the sound of my voice. Sometimes you cry, but you always reach out for me.

I pick you up and sit in your rocking chair and feed you. For a moment you're my baby again, you lie still in my arms, staring up at me in an innocent wonder, fingers curling around mine, or fisting my shirt in your hands. I whisper to you, songs, nonsense, love. I kiss your (still) fuzzy faux-hawk head, nuzzle your cheek against mine. I do that until your lips pull away from the bottle in a wide grin and you greet me with your good morning gurgle. It's now the best part of my day.

Love,

Mommy

xo

PS. Daddy wants me to tell you he says hi.

Dear Noah - Week 24

Dear Noah,

Hello my joy, my heart, my world...the one who renders me completely exhausted at the end of each day.

This week you're 6 months old, half a year...

Your dad and I spent one evening this week looking at all the old videos we've taken of you over the last 24 weeks.

The first was when you were three days old, your movements sluggish, but your eyes so alert, looking around the hospital room and hiccuping out of control.

That's what everyone has said since the day you were born, "He's so alert, he's so aware of what's going on around him."

I like to think it was the horrid omega 3 fish oil I was ingesting (and burping up) while you were inside me that made you so smart, so alert.

You're an old soul my little one, someone that I've met before, loved before in a long-ago time and place. Those wide, slate-grey-blue-brown eyes know me, follow me around a room, brighten at the sound of my voice. It breaks my heart a little to know you will never love me again like you do now.

You struggle to talk, tell me what you need, what you want, what you're thinking and feeling. I can tell that once you do start speaking, you talk everyone's ear off.

This month you've started eating baby food that I've made. Yams, butternut squash, red delicious apples, peas (peas, peas, peas!!), oatmeal and rice cereals have been your staples. It's been entertaining feeding you; watch your lips purse, your brow furrow and your nose scrunch at the new textures and tastes.

You stand now with help. Those chubby, strong little legs that I love to nibble, hold you high and sturdy. I think you're going to skip crawling and go straight to walking, running and running and running.

I think you should know the various nicknames your dad and I have come up with for you, since by the time you read this, you likely won't have them anymore.

When I was pregnant with you, you were Peanut and Pumpkin. When you were first born, you had the cutest cry, hence, Squeaky Mouse. Now, you've graduated to a wide variety of mostly irrelevant nicknames that include: Bubba, Bubba Lou, Hambone Head, Little Turd (that's when you're playing in bed instead of sleeping), Mr. Fuzzy Head, Sweetie, Peanut Butter, Peanut Butter Jelly Pie and Buddy.

In the coming months I know the changes in you will be dramatic, dazzling and mind-blowing...like, how can you get your toes in your mouth? But can you do mommy and daddy a favour, please stop growing up so fast. Just stay our little baby a while longer.

Love,

Mommy

xo

PS. Can you also sleep in...a bit later than 5 a.m.?

Dear Noah - Week 20

Dear Noah,

This week you turned 20 weeks old and I still haven't figured you out.

You're a mystery to me. A complete and utter nonsensical little person that I wish so very much I could understand.

The constant guess work is starting to get to me. As are the constant questions and comments from concerned, yet clueless bystanders: "Do you think he hungry?"

Yeah, he's hungry, I'm just not in the mood to feed him right now.

"Maybe he's wet."

Uh huh, he's been in the same diaper since Tuesday, he must be a little damp by now.

"What's wrong with him?" (this has to be my favourite)

Do you think if I, his mother, knew what was wrong, that he would still be screaming his head off?

I'm tired sweetie.

Mommy's tired of smiling for you when I feel like crying because you've been up since 5 a.m. and haven't napped more than 30 minutes and you've done nothing but whine, cry and fuss for 3 hours straight.

Mommy's tired of worrying whether she's doing it right - anything right. Whether you're going to be forever scarred and have permanent sleeping issues because I can't get you to nap for longer than 45 minutes at a time. Because that ass, the author of the book from hell, Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, has convinced me that you will develop insomnia, because I can't implement proper sleep training.

Mommy's tired of being tired. I feel like I've been tired for the last 5 months. I worry I will never remember what it's like to get a full, uninterrupted 8 hours of sleep again.

But then I remember those words, "this too shall pass."

Yes it will. It will pass by like the last five months, in a blink, a flash...

I barely remember what it was like to hold you when you weren't wiggling to be set free, when I was waking up every three hours like clockwork to feed you a 4-ounce bottle.

Although it was out of my control, I regret having postpartum depression, because looking at photos of your first month is painful. Although you were well taken care of, I felt as if I was in a fog, that none of the love I felt was getting through.

I clearly recall several nights feeding you, and putting you back into your cradle, where you would wail and cry almost instantly.

I'd get out of bed, rock you until you slept and again lay you back down. I would do this dozens of times a night, refusing to spoil you by bringing you into bed with me. How naive I was.

There were only handful of times I would lie you on my chest and let you sleep there, or put you between your dad and I in bed. I wish I'd done it more.

You're only 20 weeks old and already I have enough regrets to fill a novel and I know there will be many more to come.

Just know, with the regrets come learning - for us both - and with learning comes wisdom.

I am learning not to rush, to take my time enjoying the little moments with you. Moments of scraping more oatmeal off your face than what you're eating. Moments of laughter as we roll on the floor together.

I'm learning that being a mom is not meant to be fun 24/7. That I'm allowed to dislike parts of it and it's okay. It doesn't make a me a bad person or a bad mother.

Just know that no matter what mistakes I make, that I have done my best. I will always do my best to help you become your best.

Love,

Mommy

xo

Dear Noah - Week 18

Dear Noah,

You turned 18 weeks old on Saturday. It's taken me this long to write to you because, in all honesty, I've been a shitty mother. And when I'm shitty at something, I hate it - this isn't to say that I've hated you - I've just hated being a mom.

It's not easy being a mom (not that anyone told me it was), it's just a lot harder than I thought it would be. I thought I was more patient, giving and selfless, but I realized that those were things I had to learn along the way.

I am happy to say that I am at peace with being a mom, your mom.

However, I'm no expert; I screw up daily. Like when I want to toss you in the snowbank or scold you rather harshly for screaming in my face, but slowly (sometimes at a snail's pace) the words, "it's so worth it" are beginning to ring true.

The joy you bring me on a daily basis outweigh your tantrums, which, really, is the only grief you cause me.

So with this momentarily happy moment in mind - because they are, at times, fleeting - I wanted to write to you.

Maybe not weekly, but at least monthly. Somehow I figure even if you - or anyone else - don't find any of my ramblings, or stories about your infancy and my inner turmoil interesting, it will comfort me in remembering them when you're all grown up

This week you've been nothing short of spectacular to me. You're changing, growing leaps and bounds - smiling, laughing, rolling, "talking", almost sitting on your own and eating homemade oatmeal cereal - you amaze me.

My favourite time to spend with you is bedtime and your nighttime feeding. Not only because I get a quiet snuggle - you're quite the chatty wiggly worm - but because it's the only time that your still my little baby. I feel at times as if you're literally growing into a boy before my very eyes.

It's during those moments that I hold you as close as I possibly can to my chest and kiss your tiny, fuzzy head over and over and over. I whisper the song that never fails to make you smile: "Let it Snow" and tell you I love you. I've spent many a night in that rocking chair, sobbing with the love that just pours out of me, especially when you sigh so contentedly as I'm kissing you, nuzzling your forehead with mine.

It's then that I feel, despite my own shortcomings and faults, I must be doing something right, because it seems as if you love me too, in your own way.

Love,

Mommy

xo