Dear Nico: Month 1

 

Dear Nico,

this is the first of many letters you will receive from me chronicling your life. i plan to write them every month, time permitting, and they will capture highlights and milestones that we can both look back on one day, hopefully with love and humor. 

i must admit this is not my original idea, as i’ve seen it done on other blogs before, certainly better, and most notably on dooce.com, a “mommy blog” i’ve been a longtime reader of. that blogger, Heather Armstrong, turned her letters to her daughter into a book called Dear Daughter. i hope to bind these into a book for you someday as well.

so about your first month. i’m not sure i can find the right adjectives to describe it accurately. maybe because i would use almost every adjective. perhaps the most apt would be “exhilarating,” which the dictionary defines as “making one feel very happy, animated, or elated; thrilling.” 

it has been all these things, much to my delight, as i had concerns about developing postpartum depression, as many women do. but i assure you that there has not been one ounce of sadness in this first month, despite the many trying moments brought on by sleep deprivation and your crying. not even when you projectile vomited breastmilk into my mouth did i stop and think to myself, “this is some bullshit.”

honestly, i thought this first month would be harder, given the chorus of complaints of mothers on the internet, which i will try my hardest, as a blogger, not to join. certainly, the first two weeks were challenging with your wanting to eat every half hour to hour and a half, but i adjusted, and then you began sleeping glorious three-hour stretches in weeks three and four, making my tired eyes find you that much cuter.  

thankfully, i have not (yet) experienced the agony of sleeping only five hours in three days like i thought i would. at worst, i’ve slept just five cobbled together hours in one 24-hour period (and more likely seven hours) as i have been fastidious about sleeping when you sleep — the most cliched advice about newborns, which, of course, turned out to be the most sound. and when i have slept those three hours alongside you, i wake up feeling recharged, as though i came back from sitting on the beach for a week in hawaii.

granted, i’ve also had a lot of support in the form of your incredible father and my incredible mother, your grandmother whom you will know as “babushka.” she has been coming over most weekdays to help around the house and keep you company while i sleep. we’ve also had many kind friends visit with warm food and good tidings, your makeshift “aunties” and “uncles,” whom i know will enrich your life as much as we will.

in your daddy’s native spanish, there is an expression for this: “a baby is always born with a loaf of bread.” you seem to have come with a whole bakery, as many thoughtful cards and gifts have accompanied your arrival, confirming to us that we know some of the best people on earth. i’m pleased that you will know them, too.

speaking of your father, i should warn you now that your likeness is in for a lifetime of photoshop, all of his doing and all done on his iPhone. i’m sure a lot of it may embarrass you, but being embarrassed by us is part of our duty as parents now, and we promise to deliver. having a sense of humor will help ensure your survival in this family. we’ll do our best to inject some levity into your personality, probably by making fun of you A LOT. you are expected to reciprocate.

your arrival also kicked off the beginning of an endless Groundhog Day for me. (i will show you this film one day as i plan to use this reference often.) it basically means that every day has resembled every other day. but that is life with a newborn: an endless marathon of feeding, burping, changing, wiping, washing, rocking, bouncing, kissing, cooing and staring, punctuated by the occasional shower and meal for me. and it’s far from over. 

you have contributed dutifully by being the eating, sleeping, pooping machine that you are supposed to be at this stage of your existence. and i have to be honest, kid, you are kind of boring right now. you are not very interactive, despite having quite an expressive face, though you are far from those first days of life when you seemed like some primitive woodland creature, even though you were born full term after a hellish 34-hour labor i plan to lord over you via the jewish guilt that is my birthright. 

 

at the hospital, i was convinced everything was wrong with you. your breath was uneven and gurgly, convincing me you had asthma; your eyes would look past me, making me think you were blind; you never responded to sounds, worrying me that you were deaf; and your jaw would tremble uncontrollably, convincing me you had epilepsy. plus, you were a noisy sleeper (still are), bleating out random screams, shrieks, cries, grunts and squeaks that kept me on high alert. but the doctors checked you out and told me you were fine, just being a baby.   

now you are much steadier and sturdier, having gained three pounds in your first month, which puts your weight at 10 pounds. you have been a champion nurser with a voracious appetite, latching well since your first day. i’m surprised by how much i love nursing you and how relatively easy it’s been for us (damn the internet for making me believe it would be hard). let’s try to keep it up for at least a year, ok?

i’ve spent a lot of time this month gazing at you lovingly, as your first month on earth coincided with my first month as a mother. i’m trying to savor these early moments while you’re small and dependent on me, because i know that, soon enough, you’ll start favoring the independence of your legs over the comfort of my arms. but until then, i’ll keep working to set the foundation to make you the momma’s boy i’ve always wanted (but one who will eventually cook and do his own laundry).

you cry plenty, sometimes erupting in blood-curdling screams that block your airflow and make me worry you’ll pass out. these screams always constrict the muscles in my neck and make my breasts fill up with milk. i’m surprised by the visceral reaction i have to them, but we are irrecoverably tied together, you and i, and i see now that my well-being is best served by serving your well-being.

i’ve been relying on my instincts to help me distinguish between your various cries and figure out the ways that soothe you the best and, thankfully, they’ve delivered, ensuring that each day runs a little smoother than the previous one. we will figure it out together, this whole motherhood business for me, and life business for you, hopefully with a minimum of crying on both our parts.

i can’t say i love every part of motherhood, but i love every part of you, which makes all of it bearable. admittedly, there have been times when i thought i couldn’t possibly change another diaper or sit through another hour-long nursing session. but then i look into your big, wondrous eyes, caress your soft, squishy cheeks, study the creases of your hands, kiss the rolls in your thighs, smell the top of your head and just stare at you with awe and utter amazement, and then i get up to change your diaper or sit down to nurse you for an hour.

because you are my son and i am your mother. it’s a simple concept with profound ramifications — an enormous, overwhelming, heartachingly beautiful reality i am not even close to understanding.

what i do understand is that the love that’s come with motherhood has been transformative, allowing me to experience a depth of joy (and anxiety) i’ve never known before. it’s intense and consuming, almost unhealthy in the way it’s taken over my entire being, putting me at your mercy. i know that if you break my heart 100 times, 100 times it will regenerate, only to be offered to you again. i will never hold a grudge, and i won’t ever walk away from you.

this type of unconditional love would be dangerous if i felt it for any other individual, but for you and me, for any mother and child, it’s magical. i’m happy to finally understand it. and i promise you that i will always try to operate from its core. because you are my son and i am your mother. you are my heart existing outside of my body. and i love you.