The Dirt Field

Dear Caroline,

A year ago today, we had our first moment together. I heard your crying and the sound – a sudden surreal mewling, like somebody was powerwashing a small, furious cat – brought me instantly to tears. The nurse brought you around the surgical drape to my head and I pressed my face into your skin. You were damp, warm, and so soft and I was instantly and permanently attached.

And now it’s been a year. Generally you’re still pretty warm and soft, and often unfortunately damp. Children are a sticky, slimy, drippy business but they have a way of making you love them so much it doesn’t matter. I’ve eaten yogurt out of your hair, wiped your nose on my sleeve, caught your drool with my fingers without hesitation. Parenting in the first year seems to be mostly fluid management combined with anxiety over the sudden realization that things like blankets, outlets, and cabinets can be deadly.

People talked about the challenges of the first weeks, the first six months, the first year, the first two decades. And yes, there have been challenges. We had a time in the early weeks of your life where the whole household was suspended in a nightmare twilight of you mostly screaming and not sleeping. Everybody was on the edge of shattering until suddenly things improved. Apparently babies need to go to bed earlier than 10pm, something your father and I didn’t realize until you had spent the better part of several weeks crying hysterically from what turned out to be exhaustion. That is another thing about parenting – the things you don’t know will ruin your life until you suddenly figure them out and then it’s smooth sailing. Until the next time.

But we made it through the hard parts, adapting, learning, and growing together. Sometimes it almost feels like we’ve got this parenting thing nailed. Almost.

You’re a remarkably happy person, so much so that strangers comment on your grins and general joy. I’m not sure where you got that from, considering that your father and I are cynical, uptight souls, but it’s nice to have such a bright spot in the family. You have become the sun around which we all orbit and when you smile hugely and clap your hands with glee, we can’t help but want to join you. I’ve never clapped or waved as much in my life as I have in the past few months. Even walking up or down the stairs together becomes cause for celebration. The stairs! The window! CARPETING! HOORAY!

That’s the best part about having you around, and what I suspected would be the most enjoyable aspect of parenting. We’re constantly forced to slow down and move at your pace, the pace of spending five minutes closely examining a crumb from the floor. You find joy in the most basic things – celery, tupperware, a hairbrush – and so I end up sitting there enjoying it with you. Tupperware is pretty great. I’ve never tried licking the door of the dishwasher but it’s probably pretty great as well. Instead of worrying constantly about the macro aspects of life and plans, I’m enjoying small moments of sitting with you, dancing to one of your favorite songs (Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” and Queen’s “Somebody To Love” – now there’s a mixed bag), or playing with a single Cheerio.

The hardest part of parenting (other than the fear of everything ever in the world that could hurt you) is the constant worry that I’m not doing enough. There are so many things that it feels like I should be doing to better your start in this world: reading stories, practicing standing, learning letters and words and numbers. What if I’m letting you fall behind? What if I’m not spending enough time doing meaningful things with you? What if I’m not around enough? I’m home a lot of the time thanks to my chosen jobs, but I’m often distracted with emails, things on the to-do list, training obligations, etc. While I try to work as quickly as possible so there’s more time for you, there are never enough hours in the day. It feels like I’m always coming up short and I’m terrified of not being enough for you.

But please know that no matter what, I love you more than anything in the world. You are my Caroline Annabelle Picklepants and the biggest source of joy in our universe. Your father and I adore you and are so glad you came into this world and have made us a family. My life would be so much less without you in it.

Sometimes thinking about that, our family, and how much I love you is enough to take my breath away. What if something happened to you? You got the flu a few weeks ago and it was terrible to see you so sick. You were hospitalized with an infection when you were four months old and I was nearly paralyzed with fear. How can I ever keep you safe and secure in this world and make sure that our family is always okay and smiling and clapping?

No amount of to-do lists or neurosis on my part will ever guarantee that we all get to live happily ever after. I’m trying to accept this and instead focus on making each of your days as happy as possible and making your life as wonderful as we can. When I blew out your birthday candles today (right before eating your cake, sorry about that), I simply wished for you to have everything ever. May you always be happy enough to clap with joy.

I love you,

Mom