Two nights ago I dropped my phone on your sleeping head. It was a low point in mothering to be sure. I was playing Angry Birds. When you get around to reading this someday, I'm sure Angry Birds will look to you like either "pet rock" or "rubick's cube" or something even less known about because trends change so much more quickly now and will only change faster throughout your lifetime.
Last year, you were in my belly still. I wrote this to you. It's not New Year's Eve again yet, so this post is a bit early, but I have to steal time where I can these days - mostly because of you.
So 2010 was big, wasn't it. Here we are - you are alive and well as are your father and I. We've all had some rough patches, of course. You had that 3 hours of trying to get born and hitting a pelvic bone and then getting yanked out the other way and then getting jaundiced thing. I had that long labor, 3 hours of ramming you into a pelvic bone, getting filleted, and recovering thing. Your dad had to watch all that. Then there was the nursing.
If I were to decree a 2010 word of the year it would be nursing. Or breastfeeding. Pick the word of your choice. Second place - though not by much - would be pumping.
I was so unprepared for you. I know now there was no way to prepare. There's no way to understand before until it's after, no way to see there was a then until now. I've never felt more mortal and afraid. I've never truly felt the single-directed nature of time before you came along. You'll never be a newborn again. You'll never be an infant again. You're crawling and you'll soon be marching into the future. This train goes one way, it doesn't slow down, it's not quite an express, it's definitely local, but somedays, I do wish for a leaf-caused pause in this rush.
Merry Christmas, small one. This one was weird, but you won't remember. The first one you remember, I promise, will be awsome.