Dear Paxton,

I have sat in front of this computer screen for hours now.  In fact, I have opened up this computer screen to stare at that awful flashing cursor for far too many days.  It mocks me and screams, just do it already, and still I feel speechless… something that is completely foreign to me.  I don’t always know the answer.  I don’t always say the right thing.  I don’t always choose my words carefully.  But I ALWAYS have SOMETHING to say.

I’m not sure that this will be my best attempt to say exactly how I’m feeling, because I’m still trying to figure out what exactly I am feeling.  You know by now that I write/speak with no filter, so here goes…

terrified. excited. anxious. disbelief. amazed. blessed. confused. scared. surprised. nervous. eager. apprehensive. joyful.

Put all of those words on a piece of paper, then wad those pieces of paper together and swallow it.  I know what you’re thinking, I’ll choke.  Yep.  It’s right there stuck somewhere between your throat and the deepest part of your stomach.  Just close enough to your throat to make you want to constantly throw up.  Just far enough down to feel the ache in the pit of your stomach.  It’s half panic and half I’ll get through this, I think.

We got a new vehicle in November.  Your dad insisted we get one with third row seating.  I thought that was crazy, but went with it.  When are we really going to use third row seating?  You aren’t really in the having friends over stage, and a family of 3 plus 1 dog hardly warrants 7 seats.  We used the third row several times out in Colorado, including once where it was Daddy and Pops in the front, you and Uncle Logan in the middle, Grammy, Aunt Kelsey and me in the back, AND Jersey and Reese on the floor.  Turns out, the third row might come in useful.

You see, God has pretty crazy timing with things.  We had such an amazing Christmas break.  We looked at houses, talked to a principal, and felt really good about our decision to move out to Colorado.  We discussed putting our house on the market, and when we could move on a house that we loved out by Grammy and Pops.  We returned to Illinois and as I was ‘cleaning’ I started ‘packing’.  First, I packed away all of my maternity clothes back into the huge tubs that go out to the shed.  I started this task forever ago, but finally convinced myself to let go of the elastic band at the top of the pants.  I even bought tons of new clothes over break and beamed as I took my size 6’s to the checkout counter.  Hoping the checkout lady would somehow know that I had lost all of my pregnancy weight.  She never even asked, can you believe that? Then I packed away all of the ‘baby’ things that you’ve outgrown… the bottles, pacifiers, clothes from newborn to size 12 months.  I packed up my pump….HALLELUJAH!  You are completely done breastfeeding and I’m so proud of myself for making it to one year.  I taped up boxes and labeled them… knowing I wouldn’t need them again until next year or the year after sometime.  I’ve prayed every night that God would bless us with another baby when we would start trying again this fall or winter.  And right when I got things packed away, right when I squeezed my forever changed body into my size 6’s…God answered my prayers, just not in the way I was expecting.  Turns out that God is blessing us with another baby, but we’re going to have the real deal this fall, no matter when we thought we’d start trying.

You are clearly super excited about this.

It’s taken me a long time to process that this is even real.  I didn’t believe it when I took the tests at home.  I made your daddy go to the store in an absolute blizzard to get a test, just to ease my mind, but I knew there was no way it could be positive.  It was positive.  Your daddy and I were definitely not trying, and again, you were a miracle in itself.  I had no idea if we’d be able to have another, and the thought seemed so far away.  It definitely couldn’t happen when we were carefully preventing another pregnancy.  I didn’t even really believe it when I went to the emergency room and they did both a blood and urine test.  They were positive.  And when we went to the doctor’s office for our first prenatal visit, the same doctor that delivered you one short year ago, an office I feel like we just sat in looking at you for the first time on that screen, I was still confused when I saw that familiar shape, that tiny heart, beating at me on the sonogram screen.  It was really happening.

Here’s what I’ve put together.  This kid must be pretty important.  There must be a pretty incredible reason that he or she is coming into this world.  I’m not going to say it was a mistake or an oops, because that sounds like we wish it wouldn’t have happened. I know there are a million women that would give anything to be in my shoes.  For several years of my life, I thought I was one of those women. In reality, we are scared and excited, and all kinds of things that don’t make any sense.  It’s one thing to quit a job, sell a house, move out of state, buy a house, and interview for jobs.  It’s a whole different thing to interview for jobs when you’re going to need to take the first 6 weeks off from that job to rest, recover, and raise your new little miracle.  We all of the sudden have to worry about insurance, switching doctors, and the possibility of delivering a baby in a hospital that is brand new. I’ve been so incredibly torn on this timing of all of this, but that’s life.  That’s the climb…and I’ve chose to embrace that climb, because it’s what I hope for you.

Sometime in August or the beginning of September, you will become a big sister.  (My prediction…it will happen the day school is supposed to start.  That’s just how things go.)

You will still be my baby.  And I don’t mean that in the creepy way like the mom in the book Love You Forever.  While I love that story, I will not be sneaking into your room when you are in college to rock you and sing to you that you will always be my baby.  You’re just going to have to take my word for it.  I am terrified I’m robbing your childhood by bringing another baby into our family.  And at the same time, I can’t wait to watch this transformation.

Sometime in August or September, there will be 2 babies under 2 years old, 2 cribs, 2 high chairs, 2 carseats in that vehicle with third row seating.  My heart, which is currently bursting at the seams just from being your mom, will grow even larger to accommodate enough love for 2 children.  We will become a family of 4, and Jersey will get moved to that third row.  We will struggle, we will break. And then we will grow.  And this will probably happen multiple times a day.  We will adjust to this new life.

Pregnancy is something I don’t wear well.  I don’t glow.  I don’t hear the “oh girl, you are ALL belly” comments.  I pack it on from my forehead to my swollen toes. I can’t hide it at all.  I have spent the last 3 weeks wearing every single vest I have, which has felt like I’m wearing a corset. I am convinced that I was never going to be physically “ready” to go through it again, so instead, God said, “Surprise!”  I prayed it would be different than it was with you, and then I look at what I got out of it, and wonder if I want it to be exactly the same.  When I was pregnant with you, and in the height of the morning sickness… scratch that, the all day sickness, I was on summer break.  I seriously spent the entire day on the couch puking in a bucket or laying out in the pool with Ashley, puking in a bucket.  I had no responsibilities, nothing to do but lay around, nap, and puke.  Not that it was graceful, but I could handle it.  Summer school started up, and I would run across the hallway to my carefully positioned trash can.  Then school started in August and I was getting sick a little less, and just had to worry about crazy contractions, swollen feet, and suggestions of bed rest or working half days.

It’s all a little more interesting when you are smack dab in the middle of a school year, and you have 19 students staring up at you that have no idea what’s growing inside of you or that the small mustard stain on their t-shirt is going to make you throw up at any second, and they need you 100% of the time.  It doesn’t matter that you’ve been up all night, or that the smell of the snack they provided is going to push you over the edge.  You spend all day giving these kids all you have, and you do it with a smile on your face, even if that means asking the saint of a teacher next door to watch your class for a second, while you run out of the room several times a day.  And then you get home and you have absolutely nothing left, because you’ve been “performing” all day (that’s what teachers do, if you wondered) and then you have this perfect little mini-me at home.  This baby turned toddler is learning to get around.  She is rearranging furniture, pulling all the books off her shelf, and starting to test the waters.  She eyes those outlets and gets that look like, “What are you gonna do, Mama?”  This beautiful thing you created needs you, 100% of the time.  Even when she’s eating supper and the combination of foods and the fact that it’s coming out of her nose and her ears makes your body heave, quiver, and wonder how you’ll survive.  And this baby, just like your students, deserves you at your best.  So you give it all you’ve got.  And then you thank your lucky stars for a husband that understands.  A husband who hasn’t had a solid meal in weeks, because whatever I set out in the morning sounds awful by dinner time, as does any food, except pineapples and strawberry milkshakes.  A husband that goes off to get you that milkshake at bath time.  A husband that says you look beautiful as you stumble off to bed at 7:15 p.m., in pajama pants that have who-knows-what on them, in a shirt that’s too tight, belly hanging out, hair piled haphazardly on top of your head,  stopping at the bathroom in the hallway to puke one last time.  A husband that stays up, does the dishes, and gets the house ready to do it all over again tomorrow.  A husband that without question, goes out to the shed to get those carefully packed tubs of maternity clothes.  Lord knows you’re going to need them any second now.  And then takes those tubs back out to the shed, only this time, they’re filled with all your size 6’s that you wore for like half a second.

I don’t do things the easy way.  Life’s too short for that business.  So, here we go, sweet girl.  Hold on tight.  Forgive me if I only read your favorite book to you 3 times instead of 4 before we go to bed.  Forgive me when I carry you into the bathroom when I need to get sick and you have to listen to that awful sound, just so I know you’re not getting into anything out of my sight.  Forgive me when your supper consists of absolutely no vegetables.  Sometimes it’s a simple miracle just to get something with any nutritional value at all on your tray, because the smell of those peas, it’s just too much.  Forgive me when my lap becomes smaller, but my heart becomes bigger.  Forgive me for the tears, I’m not sad, but I would be lying if I wasn’t a little scared.  Forgive me when it becomes too hard to carry you, so you have to eventually learn to walk (all the cool kids usually do it before they turn 2).  Forgive me if I’m not always the superhero that you need.  But know, I will always have that cape when you need it most.  It might come and go, it might need to be shared, I might have to have Daddy wear it for a few minutes while I lay down, it might be hiding in the third row with a few shoes that don’t match, an old sippy cup, and my dignity.

Please know, without a doubt, that I will give you every ounce I have to make sure you are safe, happy, and healthy.  And above all, know that no matter what comes in August or September, you, my dear, are my baby.  You fulfilled something in me that I wasn’t even aware was missing.  I had a pretty awful 9 months making you, but at the end of that 9 months, you made me something I thought I’d only dream about- a mom.  And now I get to experience that journey all over again, with you (and an amazing support system) on my sideline, or in the current state, holding my hair back.  We got this.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

You are a big one year old.  Even though we’ve celebrated, we’ve sang, and we’ve opened presents, it doesn’t seem to sink in.  One year.  It’s the point where you switch from a baby to a toddler.  Where I look at you and I realize you’re not covered in rolls anymore, and you’re starting to be Miss Independent.  You don’t need Mommy for everything, especially for your main source of nutrition.  One year.

It’s been a rough week in our house.  I had all of these elaborate plans for your actual birthday.  I imagined making you pancakes in the shape of number 1’s, putting streamers on your door that you could crawl in and out of, getting you some balloons to play with, and greeting you with all the energy and enthusiasm that you deserve.  Then I got the stomach flu.  Not only did I not do any of those things, but I also took the afternoon off, snuck in to the house while Katie was watching you, and went to bed.  Grandma Connie came over to help after school because your daddy had jury duty, work, and then meetings.  I certainly didn’t make your special day, very special.  But that’s what I get for making plans.

On Saturday (after a trip to the ER on Friday for fluids and IV meds), I was semi-living.  Your daddy watched you while I decorated for your party with the help of Grandma and Grandpa, Katie, and Grammy and Pops.  I have been excited about your puppy paw-ty for a long time, and just knew you were going to love seeing all your friends.  I also couldn’t wait to see you devour your gluten free cake.  (I wonder if by the time you read these if you will still be gluten free.)

We went fairly simple on the party.  Pupcakes (cupcakes), puppy chow, fetch sticks (chocolate covered pretzels), chewy bones (rice krispies), and pupcorn (popcorn).  Drink choices were toilet water, puddle tea, or lemonade, which I named “Never eat yellow snow.”  There was a place to wipe your paws, and a little pups playpen for all the kids.  The favors were puppy coloring books wrapped in newspaper with paw print crayons.  There was also an “Adopt-a-Puppy” station with rubber-ducky-puppies, if that makes any sense at all.

We had no agenda for the party.  People came and ate, and we gave you the cake.  You touched it and then looked at me like I was crazy for giving it to you.  It was your first real experience with sugar, and to be honest, you weren’t a big fan.  As a photographer, I was super disappointed.  As a mom, I was like, yesssss.  I’ve been hoping you won’t have the same sweet tooth that I do.

After the poor showing at the cake-smash, you opened (and by you, I mean your dad and I) a hundred presents from the people who love you like crazy.  I thought our house was full after Christmas.  It’s borderline needing a storage shed at this point!  You loved your presents, especially your puppy dog chair and your baby doll.

It was so neat to just enjoy all the kids running around.  I felt old and I felt proud, and of course, a little nauseous, all at the same time.  I look around at the people I grew up with, or met along my ride at some point, and I can only wish the same for you.  I looked at Lindsey, Kristen, and Kelsey, my lifelong friends since I was a little girl.  I’m so lucky to have a solid foundation from my hometown.  I look at Rachel, a true gem I met in college, and will forever be really close to.  I look at your daddy’s family, my family, and see how incredibly supported we are with raising you, loving you, and spoiling you.  I look at the group of friends from Auburn that I adopted when I started dating your daddy- Ben and Kim, Zach and Tiff, Josh and Mindy.  I look at the people I’ve met along my teaching path- Ashley, Jen, Mel, Bethany.  And then there’s the children, the husbands… the crew.  I looked at Kendra, the nurse that was there for my entire delivery, and is now a great friend.  We are so blessed, little girl.  Find people like this.  Find people like this, and don’t let them go.  Work hard to stay in touch.  I’m really bad at that.  I find myself getting too busy to call and just catch up.  And then I’m amazed when I do call, or receive a call, and it’s like we’ve never missed a step.  Those are the beautiful relationships in life.  You see, any of those people I just listed, would drop anything to come and help, and most of them have at some point in my life.  Friendships are rare, fragile, amazing things.  But they’re so worth fighting for.

Tomorrow we go to the doctor for your 1 year appointment.  She’ll ask if you’re walking, and we’ll say that you’re not even close.  This still cracks me up, because your daddy walked at 9 months.  He clearly didn’t have the same chubby little legs that you have, and those itty bitty feet.  Seriously…the rest of you is growing, but those feet… those feet have been that small for the entire past year.  It’s like your toes don’t even have enough room on the end of your feet.  The doctor will ask if you’re saying anything.  That, I’m not at all concerned about!  You are a regular old chatterbox.  You definitely tell us what you want.  You answer, “What does a pig say, what does a cow say, what does a bear say, what does santa say (my favorite)?”  You say mama, dada, pop, ba ba for bath, and juh for jersey.  When we ask you something, you get all excited, shake you head up and down and say, “Yah Yah.”  You sign “all done” when you are finished eating (or when you’ve just started and you don’t like the meal) and will sign “more” if I do it first.  Your routine right now is to wake up around 7 (sometimes after), drink some milk, eat breakfast (usually oatmeal and toast or a waffle), nap for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, snack, eat lunch, nap another hour or 2, snack, eat dinner, bath time, story time, prayers, and bed by 7.

Your daddy loves this age more than anything.  I love that we know what you need, but I definitely miss your newborn snuggles.  I also wasn’t prepared for the temper tantrums. I don’t know why I wasn’t prepared, your Grammy warned me, but they are something else!  You throw your arms back, slam your heels against the floor, get red in the face, and let me have it.  It’s usually because I won’t let you eat dog food or play in Jersey’s water bowl.  Or when I can’t get your food on your tray fast enough…Lord have mercy.  Your daddy, I’m finding out more and more each day, was born to be a daddy.  He lights up when he sees you.  He loves to chase you up and down the hallway.  And when I was sick for 6 days, that felt like 6 weeks, he took care of you, and me with no hesitation.  I would lay in bed wondering how single mothers/fathers and stay at home moms/dads do it (more power to you women and men) and I would listen to him giggling with you during bath time, and I would just breathe in, breathe out, and count my blessings.  Speaking of rare, fragile relationships, find someone just like your daddy.  Well, it would be ok if he was a little more handy around the house (sorry, Tony), but otherwise, just like your daddy.  Find someone who is as good at changing diapers and kissing boo-boos as he is at making you feel special and giving you butterflies.  It’s not a fairytale like they tell you, but it’s real, and it’s vulnerable, and it’s an incredible thing.

One year.  I look at you and think there is no possible way to love you anymore.  And I truly don’t think there is, but tomorrow you will wake up, I will open your door, see that smile, hear that giggle and shriek, and I will fall into you all over again.  You, my dear, are my happiness.  I couldn’t wait to feel better so I could go back to work, so I could sleep well, so I could eat again, but mostly, I couldn’t wait to feel better again so I could experience you again. I simply cannot get enough of being your momma.  There are so many relationships in life that are amazing and complicated and worth fighting for.  But there’s nothing in the world like the one that calls you “Mama”.

Stay tuned for your one year pictures from the studio…I’ll get around to taking those.  Probably about the same time I make your pancakes and put streamers on your door.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

We are less than a week to go before your first birthday.  That makes me almost throw up just to type that.  How did we get here?

I’ve had a few people ask me, after reading my posts or hearing me tell stories about how easy you are, “What am I doing wrong with my son/daughter/family?”  You see, we’ve been extremely lucky with an easy-going, happy, healthy baby.  I don’t take that for granted, but I do recognize that I’m quick to tell people how stinkin’ unbelievable you are.  Does it have a darn thing to do with my parenting… absolutely not.  Do I have any secrets… you know I couldn’t keep them if I did.  So, this post is for the people that I’ve led astray with my rainbow tinted sunglasses.  Life with you is incredible, I’m without-a-doubt living a dream, but life with you… is not always glamorous.

Like when I was doing the dishes tonight and turned around to see those cheeks.  Now, I talk about your cheeks all the time, but lately, at certain times, they reach new proportions.  It’s the kind of massivness you only get by shoving pieces of dog food in your mouth.  This was the 3rd time in a week I’ve pulled dog food out of your mouth.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I’m out and about with you and I realize I stupidly only have one diaper left in the diaper bag.  I wait until your diaper is bulging so much that your skinny jeans barely fit, and I change it.  And then you poop.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I turn my back on you for half a second, and somehow in that time you make it from one end of the house to the other, giggling as your conquer your goal and laughing in my face as you realize my defeat.  I’ve found you a bazilion times now either sitting in Jersey’s water bowl, playing in it, or on a really good day, you just dump it all over the floor and yourself.  It’s always immediately after I’ve dressed you for the day.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you shut the door to every room in the house repeatedly.  And every.single.time you shut the door, you cry because it shuts.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when we drive to Springfield, which is about 15 minutes, and I hear the dreaded “uh oh.”  This is your new phrase when you drop something.  I think you are averaging 2 toys dropped per minute.  To make a successful trip, that means I’d have to pack 30 toys around you just to get you to Springfield before you run out.  Don’t think I haven’t tried this.  Speaking of your carseat, you really don’t sleep in it.  Most of the time you make indian war cries as loud as you can or blow raspberries.  On the rare occasion you fall asleep, it’s adorable, but most of the time, it’s just loud.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you pooped in the bathtub at Grammy and Pop’s house the other night.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you throw your arms back, get red in the face, and cuss me out in your baby words… because I think it’s appropriate to put a diaper on you instead of let you crawl all over the place naked.  I’ve had to put diapers on you in the craziest positions.  Sometimes you’re upside down, sometimes your halfway in your cozy coupe, sometimes I’m not even sure I have your legs through the holes.  In fact, I’m 100% convinced that the hospitals need to offer diaper wrestling 101 instead of parenting 101.  I learned how to take your temperature, give you a bath, tell when you’re hungry, and put you to sleep in a safe environment, but no one taught me how to wrestle a 25 pound alligator into a ridiculous contraption to hold in all the poops and pees. It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you are too busy to talk to me, because you have an important phone call.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I spend your entire nap time cleaning up the tornado that went through our living room, and the first thing you do when you wake up is dump your toy box, take out every puzzle piece, and scatter your farm animals around the house.  It’s like Where’s Waldo, only it’s where’d you put the cow this time?  And it’s not as much fun.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I ask you for a kiss, and you stick your tongue out and spit all over me.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I’m not sure the last time I showered, and I find pieces of your food in my hair, and I’m not sure if it’s from last week’s spaghetti dinner or last night’s. For the record, I do shower more often than this…it just seems like it’s 2 minutes showers here and there.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I am getting your towel laid out after your bath and I look over and see you sucking on the lid of your butt paste.  I swear I have one tube of that stuff in the whole house and it always ends up in your mouth no matter where I hide it.  If only you could lead me to your farm animals like you lead me to the dang butt paste.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you’re eating cottage cheese and you think it would make a good hair product. It’s not always glamorous.

Being a mom is a tough gig.  It doesn’t come with a one-size-fits-all approach or set of directions.  It’s anything but glamorous, but it’s just so much fun.  I look at my friends and wonder how they do it.  I spend negative minutes getting ready these days.  I am in awe of the moms with the freshly dried and curled hair, the cute clothes, and the perfectly painted faces.  Maybe it’s because I’m a bit lazy, or maybe I just don’t consider it a priority anymore.    I can’t imagine how ugly things might get if you weren’t such an easy-going, incredible little girl.  But for all of you wondering about my fairy tale life, it certainly has it’s moments.  Where would the fun be if every day I knew what to expect?  Life… it’s not always glamorous.

Now that we’ve talked about some of your moments, let me put my rainbow tinted sunglasses back on.  We just got back from almost 2 weeks in Colorado, and you were AMAZING.  You did awesome in the car, you adjusted well to sleeping at Grammy and Pop’s house.  You seemed to grow right before our eyes.  Each day you discovered new tricks and new words. You now can say, “Ho Ho Ho, Uh oh, Pop, Mama, Dada,” and a whole bunch of other sounds we’re starting to recognize. Grammy taught you how to go bumpity-bump down the stairs and climb back up.  You did this somewhere between 30 and 5,000 times.  You bely laughed with that deep chuckle, you smiled with those gapped front teeth that you could drive a small car through.  You shined, just like you always do, except for those other times. It usually is, but life’s not ALWAYS glamorous.

Love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

If I could describe life in one word (it counts as one, because of the hyphen), it would be bungee-jumping.  I’ve only lived 20-something years of it so far, but it’s the best I can come up with.  Life is one big long bungee-jumping extravaganza.

The first 18+ years of your life are simply the “getting ready” phase of the jump.  (I’ve never actually bungee-jumped, so I’m winging this as I go.)  You spend this time watching videos about the correct procedures, buckling in the safety harnesses, and learning the directions.  These years are guided by your parents, friends, teachers, etc…  It’s important to listen to all the directions.

Then you go to college.  In college, your feet are on the edge and your looking out over the platform.  You put your big toe over the edge, back off, and reevaluate the situation.  You make sure you actually want to go through with it. Then you slide the other big toe over, and repeat.  You know the jump is coming, but you want to hang on to all the help as long as you can.

Jump.  You know you’re going to have to, and it’s terrifying, and it’s exciting, and it’s incredible…all at the very same time.  The jump happens when you are ready to go out and conquer those dreams.  I jumped head first, because that’s how I am, and that’s how I feel you should jump so you don’t break your neck.  I accepted a job in a town I’d never heard of, and I started the fall.

Here’s where the ride gets good.  The fall can last for several years.  It’s full of ups and downs.  Of hitting so low you think you’re going to actually smack your face on rock bottom, but then by the grace of God you bounce back up.  You spend several years in this lingo.  Things go well, then things go bad.  You’re an adrenaline junkie, Pax, so I know you’ll enjoy this phase.  It’s full of learning, stepping outside your comfort zone, meeting new people, falling in love, being heart-broken, falling in love harder, ups and downs.

The float.  Eventually you come to a steady hang-  the float.  Everything is comfortable in the float.  You have a job that you like, a family you’d go to the moon for, a warm place to call home, and a close group of friends.  The float can last for years.  I find that people often stay in the float for the rest of their lives.  Well, that’s not like your mama.  I don’t just stay.

The climb.  Every once in awhile, a few people feel brave.  These people decide that the float is great, but there might be more.  These people take every single ounce of strength in their being, and they climb.  I was one heck of a rope-climber when I was in elementary school.  It was my favorite.  They had 5 different challenges that got harder each time.  The 5th challenge was climbing the rope with no legs. I did the 5th challenge in first grade.  I should’ve known then that I’d forever be a climber.  Warning- your daddy is also a climber.  I’ve heard stories about him finding his way to the roof of his old house so fast that the only way your grandparents knew he was up there was when they heard his little footsteps pitter-pattering.  The climb is hard, even harder than the jump, because you can see how far you have to go.  But at the end of the climb, you get to jump again.  And that jump, that jump is beautiful.

You are almost 11 months old, and we have decided to climb instead of float.  In a few weeks now, we are heading out to Colorado for Christmas.  We’ll spend a week and a half with your Grammy and Pops, with Uncle Logan and Aunt Kelsey.  We’ll sit around and laugh at your little temper tantrums that you’ve started to throw.  We’ll absorb your smiles and your sparkly eyes.  We’ll chase you around as you crawl all over the place, and we’ll help you learn to walk.  We’ll have a tree full of presents for your first Christmas, and you’ll be fascinated with the wrapping paper and bows.  We’ll wonder what we ever talked about during dinner before we watched you shovel your food in at record speeds.

And we’ll look for houses.

Yeah, you read that right.  I love our life we have here.  I love my job.  I love our house.  But I’ve always belonged in Colorado.  I was deeply jealous of Uncle Logan when he accepted a job out there.  I’ve always been able to breathe deeper in Colorado.  There’s something about those mountains.  I pray you love the mountains, the trees, nature in general, as much as I grew up to love them.

Here’s what I’ve learned at the ripe old age of 28.  People have regrets.  I’ve told a few people our plans, and you wouldn’t believe the people who say, “I always wanted to move, but we just never got around to it.”

People get caught in the float.  They never get out.  Illinois is great, but I don’t want to look back and think what would have happened if I would’ve got off my lazy butt and chose the climb over the float.

It’s not going to be easy.  I’m going to have to dust off my old interview suits.  We’re going to have to put this house that we love on the market, without knowing for sure that our jobs are lined up in August.  I’m going to have to say goodbye to some pretty amazing people.  I’m going to pack away my photography business in hopes that I can build up new clientele in a brand new place.  It means you being farther away from one set of grandparents, one aunt and uncle, and your cousins.  It’s definitely a climb.  It also means being closer to Grammy and Pops, Uncle Logan and Aunt Kelsey, and your daddy’s Aunt Mary Ann.

I don’t know what these next few months look like for us.  I know it’s going to be a lot of work.  The climb always is.  But this time, when I put my toes back over the edge, you get to enjoy the jump with me.  I don’t know if Colorado will be your dream place, or if one day, you’ll tell your daddy and I that you are heading to a different place.  I do know that you have it deep down in your soul, to be a climber.  Reach sweet girl.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

I’m a liar.

The entire time I was pregnant with you, I swore I would never want to go through it again. Despite the constant comments, I was sure that I would never miss being pregnant and that I certainly wouldn’t forget how terrible I felt and want to have another one.

And a crazy thing happened… I started to pack away maternity clothes (pack them, not get rid of them).  And I felt a weird-indescribable twang (is that even a word?).  I find myself picturing you reading this, and I wonder… do you have a brother… a sister… both?  Did God bless us so much with you because that was it (which would be fine) or are we going to feel our hearts stretch even farther to add to our family someday?  Do we end up with 3 girls?  Do they all look just like your daddy?  Is it humanly possible to love another as much as I love you?  Your Grammy keeps telling me that the love you feel continues to grow, and that she loves you, her grandchild even more than her own child (which stings a little bit, I must say 😉 ).  I don’t understand how you could love a grandchild more than a child, but here’s my logic behind it…. When you have a baby, it takes the love you have for all people involved and combines it to create this beautiful person.  When you were born, it combined the love I have for your dad, my parents, my grandparents, your dad’s parents, his grandparents, etc…  If someday you have a child, all that love will multiply again.  It’s amazing how much the heart is capable of feeling.

I’m a liar.

I miss it.  It sounds so wrong to say that.  You are here and you are the single most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced.  I don’t miss the puking.  I don’t miss the pains.  I definitely don’t miss the fact that from 7 months on, your daddy had to tie my shoes for me.  I don’t miss knocking chairs over in my classroom or turning around too quickly and smacking students in the back of their heads with my ever-growing belly.  Sometimes you just have to laugh in order to survive. I don’t really miss the kicks (everyone told me I would).  I don’t miss wearing flip-flops in December because my feet were too fat to fit in anything else.  I don’t miss the elastic band at the top of my jeans…just kidding, I miss that something terrible.  (Those were the LAST things to get packed away).  I do miss knowing you were safe, you were protected, and you were going with me no matter where I was.

9 months… that’s a long time to carry anything, let alone a growing human inside of you.  It wasn’t like there was a backpack I could take off when the load became too much.  It wasn’t like a stack of books that could be divided between multiple people on days where you weren’t up to par and needed to hand a little off.  It’s all you, all the time.  9 months is a long, long time to be pregnant.

9 months… I guess it’s kind of a significant number for your daddy and me.  We dated for 9 months, we were engaged for 9 months.

9 months… that’s 3/4 of a year.  That’s how old you are now.  That means you’ve been here as long as I carried you.  That means I’m on my last sheet of “first year stickers.”  My last one.  When I put that 9 month sticker on your shirt, you will only have 2 more left before the one that claims you’ve been here for an entire year. But that time has flown by.  When I was pregnant, I COULDN’T WAIT FOR TIME TO PASS.  I would go to bed at 7, because when I was sleeping I wasn’t busy WAITING.  Life’s like that.  You look back and wonder where the time went and what you could’ve been doing with it.  Will we be blessed with another pregnancy?  I don’t know.  Whatever the case, at 9 months old you are changing every time I blink my eyes.

You have become a BUSY girl.  You never sit still.  Those feet are always moving, those fingers are always exploring.  Even when you are nursing, you are playing with my necklace.  I didn’t wear it one day and it definitely threw off your game.  You are not technically crawling yet… you army crawl, crawl backwards, and barrel-roll everywhere you go.  It takes you around, but I have a feeling next time I write you’ll be even more on the go!

You have two teeth on the bottom and one of your top front teeth is going to poke through any moment now.  When you smile, you always show them off.  That top tooth is giving you a run for your money.  You had a low-grade fever for several days and you’ve been going through 2-3 shirts a day unless we keep you in a bib.  Grammy says that some kids smile with their eyes, some with their mouths, but you…you smile with your entire body.  You smile, you kick your feet, you rock back and forth, and you do this crazy little snort that cracks me up.  It’s only fitting that you’re going to be a piggy for halloween. 🙂

You’ve started to imitate people.  You are getting pretty good at waving bye-bye.  Every morning when you wake up, you wave down the hallway at the baby (we have a really big picture of you at the end of the hallway).  I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this, but your mom kind of likes taking pictures of you.

Everything goes in your mouth.  Sometimes that’s a good thing.  You feed yourself now, and you mostly eat what we eat.

Sometimes it’s not such a great thing… like last weekend.  We were driving to Clinton for the Apple & Pork Festival.  It’s a big deal in Clinton.  It’s a big deal for me because I love to eat.  You were in your carseat and Jersey was in the backseat next to you.  Your Dad was driving and I was sitting with my knees touching the dashboard because your carseat is gigantic… even in our decent sized car.  We have started calling your carseat the pooping chair.  It never fails, I get you all dressed up and loaded up for a ride.  5 minutes into the ride, I start to hear the grunting.  I know this will embarrass you when you read it, but that’s what Moms are for.

Anyway, we start to smell something.  You dad is sure that it’s Jersey.  So we start to run through the possibilities.  What did she eat?  Is it her breath?  Does she need a bath?  I am pretty sure it’s you.  I start to run through the possibilities. What did you eat?  Is it your diaper?  Will you need a bath?  We continue to drive down the road.  Your dad looks back and says, “EEEEWW, what’s all over Pax’s face?”  Now, it’s next to impossible for me to turn around and see you with my knees on the dashboard, my seatback not just upright, but almost leaning forward, and my feet cramped in the 6 inches of free room.  But I perform a contortion act, and look at your face.  There are “chunks” of something all over your face.  I again ask myself, what did she eat?  Did she have prunes?  Did she throw up?  Wait…why isn’t it on her shirt?

I convince your dad to pull over.  We pull off to a little park in a tiny town right off the main road.  It takes me about 10 minutes to crawl out of the ridiculously small space I’ve shoved myself into, so your dad gets to you first.  He opens the door and says, “Jack (that’s what he calls me), you’re just going to have to laugh about this.”  Uh oh.  By the time I get to you, I’m amazed to see that you’ve pooped clear out your diaper, down to your ankles and that you’ve been having a good ole time kicking your feet in it, and then putting your feet in your mouth.  This is when it’s not such a good thing that everything goes to your mouth.

I kid you not, it took somewhere between 45 and 1,000 wipes to get you and the pooping chair cleaned up.  We threw your onesie away in the dumpster….that’s the kind of damage we’re talking about.  The car is airing out, you are on a blanket, I get you changed into a clean outfit and we are ready to load back up.  Then, we look over and see Jersey rolling in the remains of a dead animal that I couldn’t begin to identify.  It wasn’t warm that day, but we rolled into Clinton with the windows down.  Sometimes you have to laugh in order to survive.

You talk nonstop, nothing that we can recognize, but sometimes we think we know what you’re saying.  You are such a flirt.  Anytime you get near a boy, you go a little crazy.  Hudson is your main squeeze, but he’s not just any boy, he’s your fiancé.  That’s a big deal.

You wake up around 7, nurse, eat breakfast (oatmeal and a few pieces of a gluten-free waffle) and then go back down for a nap.  You typically take one bottle between 10:30-11,  and then eat lunch before going back down for another nap.  You have a light snack in the afternoon until I get home.  You nurse again, we usually go for a walk, and then you have supper between 5:30-6.  We like to play in your room and read until bath time around 7. You still are crazy about taking baths.  You splash like a wild woman, and you get mad when we get you out.  This is usually the only time I hear you fussy in the whole day.  For some reason you think I’m awful for taking you out of the tub, and even worse for thinking you should wear clothes to bed. Sometimes you just have to laugh in order to survive.  I love our nights together.  When the four of us are in your room, it just feels right.  You pull your dad’s hair and giggle, you roll over to me and reach your arms up for me to pick you up.  How did we get so lucky?  You are one incredibly happy little girl.  I don’t know how anyone could be around you and NOT smile.

Right now, I can’t imagine our lives being any more wonderful.  But you never know… I kind of miss the whole pregnancy thing…maybe, someday.

I had 9 months to grow you, and now I’ve had 9 months to watch you grow.  9 months… that’s a pretty incredible amount of time.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

I hope you’re ready for this one.  It’s going to be a little deep. 🙂

In general, people hate change.  They cling to what they know and where they feel comfort.  I can’t say that I hate all change.  I’m a fly by the seat of my pants type of lady.  Your daddy plans everything out and is the “organizer” of the two of us.  I like to explore.  He likes a map. I’m artistic, he’s logical.  Change can excite me at times.  I like to switch up my morning routine.  I might brush my teeth first one day and wash my hair first the next.  It’s my way of not getting stuck in a rut.  I think it’s fun to just not know what I’m going to be doing on any given day.  But, I don’t like surprises for the most part.  I never have.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m afraid I’ll react the wrong way, or that I might not be ready for what’s to come.  Maybe it’s the fact that surprises lead to expectations, and expectations to disappointments. This next year is going to be full of change for our family (more on that later) and that excites me.  But I don’t like surprises.

I can’t say it’s a huge surprise, but I got the phone call from Grammy that I’ve been tiptoeing around.  I was walking the high-wire between two narrow platforms trying to stomach that it was going to happen, and that it would be a blessing, and also wanting so selfishly for things to just work out.  No matter what I had planned or what I wanted, Great Grandma met Jesus last night.

There are so many blessings in this, and one of the biggest is: she met you.  I didn’t know if that was going to happen.  She adored you, and through her late stages of dementia, she would ask me over and over, “Honey, did you ever imagine something (having you) could bring you so much joy?”  No Grandma, I didn’t.

Here’s some of my favorite memories about your Great Grandma.

Growing up, she used to let me watch movies every time I spent the night with her.  But not just any movies.  She had a shelf of old VHS tapes.  (I’m pretty positive these will be non-existent by the time you are old enough to read this).  I had a rotation going that went something like this: Monday- Wizard of Oz, Tuesday- Wizard of Oz, Wednesday- Wizard of Oz, Thursday- Maybe Black Beauty, or maybe Wizard of Oz, Friday- Wizard of Oz, Saturday- Wizard of Oz, and Sunday-Wizard of Oz.  If your Uncle Logan spent the night, it totally messed up my plans, but I’m still amazed that day after day, that woman put up with me.  Apparently, between ages 6-12, I didn’t like change. She would sit me down with a TV tray, give me 4 ritz crackers and a small glass of orange juice.  I can still taste that orange juice.

We went to her house every Christmas Eve.  We would watch for Santa Clause out the window by her steps.  She would show us the reindeer tracks in her front yard and we could always pick out Rudolph’s nose in the sky.

Hardees.  I sure hope Hardees is still around when you read this.  Not because they have the highest quality of food, but for the memories.  Back in the day, Hardees used to have roast beef sandwiches that were deliciously juicy.  We’d go through the drive-thru, get a couple (with curly fries, of course) and a chocolate milk shake. The milk shakes were so thick you almost couldn’t use a straw. She would take your Uncle Logan and I to a small park in Clinton, and we’d eat.  It’s such a silly memory, but it’s still important to me.

The beauty shop.  Grandma worked at a beauty shop for a million years.  I’m not even exaggerating.  She loved what she did, and everyone loved her.  Even in her last days, she was still wanting to go to the shop.  She was a social butterfly, and all things “girly” in my life, came from Grandma.  She was the source of my hair dying adventures (that didn’t always turn out so well), my first perm (that should’ve never been suggested) and my slight love for make-up.  She believed in putting on your best red lipstick before you walk out the front door, even if you were just going to the mailbox.

As I got a little older, I gradually started weaning myself off the Wizard of Oz.  That’s when scary movie nights started.  Once every couple of months, Grandma and I would rent a scary movie, pop some microwave popcorn (we both liked Kettle Korn the best) and scare ourselves silly. Just her and I.  Just her and I, and the blanket I would hold over my face so I didn’t have to really watch the movie.

Finally, I want you to know that she loved with everything she had.  She spread herself thin and gave every ounce of her being into making sure everyone around her was happy, was comfortable, and knew they were loved.  She didn’t have the easiest childhood and she certainly didn’t have the easiest last few years of her life, but she loved, and she loved hard.  God has an extra set of wings for people like her.

Life is changing, and change can be good.  Yesterday morning, for the very first time, you waved bye-bye at me.  I was almost late to work because it amazed me.  It’s change.  You have two teeth now and when you smile, you push against them with your tongue.  It’s so cute.  It’s change.  You’ve started going from the scooting position, to throwing yourself forward (face planting on some pretty rough surfaces), rolling over onto your back, and then scooting wherever you need to go.  I call it reverse crawling.  It’s change. When I pick you up out of your crib, I don’t just hold you, but you hold me back now.  It’s change.

In two short days, you will go to your first funeral.  You will be in my arms (or probably Grammy’s or Aunt Kelsey’s because I never get to hold you when they are around) and you will bring joy to a whole bunch of people.  We will talk about memories and you will smile with your little tooth poking up from your swollen gums.  We will hug countless people, accept countless condolences, and listen to countless chuckles from you.  It will be change. We will wipe away tears as we smile at your dancing eyes, your chubby cheeks, and your deep belly laugh.   I can’t help but think about Grandma saying, “Honey, did you ever imagine something could bring you so much joy?”  No, Grandma, I didn’t.

Death is a sticky subject.  Your mommy doesn’t handle it well at all.  I can only pretend that I can protect you in a bubble of life and that you won’t experience the heartbreak of hearing a family member or friend has died.  It’s the kind of change I don’t care for.  Especially if it’s in the form of a surprise.  Here’s what I can tell you: Death is the reminder that this “life” we live is so temporary.  Pack everything you can into this temporary home, but know the true joy will come after.  Love hard.  Eat too many snacks and watch too many of your favorite movies.  Watch a couple scary movies every once in a while.  Always look for reindeer prints in the snow.  Wear your red lipstick, even if you’re going to get the mail or taking the garbage out.  Love hard, my girl.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

I made it through the first week.  It was questionable at times, but I made it.  I just wrote to you, but you have already changed so much since then.  Your first little tooth poked through on August 17th, and you are what seems like minutes away from number 2 coming.  You roll all over the place, but have no interest in crawling.  I’m pretty sure you will be a scooter instead of a crawler.  You like to sit on the floor and rock back and forth trying to get where you’re going.  You’ve started eating way more food, most recently, chicken and then eggs.  And the biggest change in our lives…Katie. 🙂

You loved going to daycare, and we had a really great experience last year after I went back to work.  And then summer happened.  You learned to nap in your own crib.  You learned where your comfort zone was, and I learned where mine was…at home.  I simply couldn’t let myself remove you from the place where we both are most comfortable…at home.  I had major anxiety about going back to school, and spent quite a few nights crying myself to sleep asking your Dad if there was ANY way at all, that I could stay home with you.  I was simply lost.  I knew it wasn’t really an option, but in my head, neither was packing you up every morning and having you nap in a pack-n-play and going from being one-on-one with me to a group of kids.  And then I did the first thing I should’ve done…  I let God have it.

This is probably my biggest struggle in life.  I let worrying consume me and try to have control over everything.  I spend a lot of time lying in bed thinking “what if?”  (This is something I pray you don’t get from me.)  After several nights of crying and going through all the scenarios, I finally said, “God, it’s yours.  You know my heart.  Take care of my girl.”  I asked for a sign, even though I’ve always thought that was a silly thing to do.  I’ve always thought that was silly, because I would “look” for signs in whatever I thought the answer should be.  For example, I might pray for a sign on whether or not I should accept a job, buy a new car, eat an ice cream cone (ok, I don’t really do that…you don’t need a sign to know if you should eat ice cream.  The answer is always yes.)  But I would ask for signs and then I would see a butterfly, or the word “yes” somewhere and think, that’s it!  This is what His plan is for me.  Well, never in my life have I been smacked upside the head like I was with my prayer.  I gave my worry to God, and two days later, I received a message from Katie.  She was taking a semester off nursing school and wondered if we needed someone to watch you.  Goosebumps.  I was sure it wouldn’t work out, and then it did.

Katie comes to our house every morning at 7:30.  You light up when you see her.  She lights up when she sees you.  And I can breathe.  She sends me pictures throughout the day and I can see how happy you are.  I have become a better teacher and mother, because I KNOW without a doubt that I’m doing the BEST I can for you.  The lesson behind all of this…. just let God have your worries in the first place.  It saves belly aches, alligator tears, and a whole lot of stress.

I’ve had people tell me that they’re a little concerned about how loud you are going to be after spending the days with Katie and the nights with me.  Katie is full of life.  She is a strong Christian woman, and she loves to dress you up.  You are loved beyond measure sweet girl.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

You know that feeling when you are holding your breath and you think you can’t hold it one second longer?  or

That feeling you get when your heart feels like it’s so close to your throat that you don’t know if you should swallow or throw up? or

That feeling when your car loses control on the ice and starts spinning, and you are turning the wheel to the right, and then the left trying to correct it, but then you just close your eyes? or

That feeling when you know the only way down is to jump, but the jump seems so far away, and you linger, toes on the edge and count backwards from 10…five times? or

That feeling when you have to be somewhere in 3 minutes and you are 15 minutes away? or

That feeling when someone you love is very sick, and your phone rings? or

That feeling when you find yourself completely lost in a city you don’t know? or

That feeling when you are riding a roller coaster and it drops, but not right at the top….the part when you’ve been dropping for a long time and you’re not sure where you left your insides?  or

That feeling when you are driving over the speed limit, carefree, and then you see the lights? or

That feeling when you are swallowing water and you feel like you are moments away from drowning?

I’m somewhere in there.

This beautiful thing happened this summer.  I learned you.  I learned what makes you happy, what makes you mad.  I learned how to make you giggle so hard you lose your breath. I learned you get a little sassy when you don’t get your way. I learned how you like to sleep and how you like to play.  I learned that you start to breathe really fast when you get excited now. I learned that you love fruit and you hate peas (I don’t blame you). I learned that you love to splash in the water, to feel the breeze on your face, and to put your feet in your mouth when you wake up from a nap. I learned to set my phone, my laptop, (even my camera) down sometimes, and just be with you.  More importantly, I sat back and watched you learn.

You’ve started this new thing where I can just see your mind working.  The wheels appear to almost be spinning in your eyes.  It happens when I let you touch the leaves on a tree, the screen on a window, the fur of a puppy.  It happens when a piece of my hair falls down and you gently reach up and let it tickle your fingers.  I can already see pieces of me in you, and one of the big ones is my love for learning.  Never stop learning and never stop exploring.  Some people “settle” on careers, on spouses, on life.  Keep reaching for new things, but know when you’ve found YOU.

So now, after 10 weeks of learning you, I’m supposed to wake up Monday morning and go back to work.  I will be greeted with 20 students whom also need to learn, whom also need me. They can’t have a teacher that can only give 90%, so I will give them 100.  But you won’t be there.  I can’t sneak into your room and watch you nap.  I can’t play peek-a-boo and hear your belly laugh. I can’t stare at the monitor waiting for you to wake up, even though I have a dirty house and a million pictures to edit.  I can’t take you with me.  You see, for 9 months during the school year last year, I could take you anywhere. You were permanently an amazing reminder of life.   And now, I can’t.  Someone else will put your giraffe blankie next to you when it’s time to nap.  Someone else will feed you your oatmeal and peaches, your green beans and pears. You will go back to taking bottles and I will reunite with the ever-dreaded pump. You will play with someone else’s hair and grip someone else’s fingers with your toes.  There is a chance….gulp….that someone else might see you take your first step, or hear your first word. I’m treading ever so delicately in the midst of accepting this.

 You are my last breath of air before I go under water, because I know I will come home to you each day at 3:41 (because we can leave school at 3:40). I am baffled that women all over the world go back to work.  I’m stunned that other mommies love their babies like I love you, and yet are still able to function apart.  I’ve heard over and over that you are going through this brief separation anxiety phase.  That it won’t last forever.  That eventually you’ll be ok staying with other people when I hand you off.  But what’s the prescription for me?   I can read about what to do for you when you might cry  out “mama”, but I wonder if you feel half as empty as I do when I walk out that door.

Please know that I work for a million reasons.  Your daddy and I want to be able to provide for you, to save for your future.  I want to be able to buy you new toys even though you’d rather play with the box, with a blade of grass, or with the rolls on your knees. I genuinely love to teach, because I love to learn and I love to watch kids learn.  I want you to know that things don’t come easy.  It is important to work and to appreciate what you have.  I appreciate that I have you.  That I have a job that gives me 10 beautiful weeks to explore. That this brief season has given me the chance to breathe you in, to learn you.

So off I go, my roller coaster dropping to no end.  But sometime I will hear the breaks screech.  I will feel my neck jerk as the ride comes to a halt.  And I will have another moment, as quick as it may be, to love you, to learn you, and to just be Mom.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

We just got back from spending the weekend at birthday parties.  You went to your friend Ava’s birthday party on Saturday and your friend Emerson’s party on Sunday.  You had a blast, because you were able to swim at both parties (and your fiancé Hudson was there… I have told you about that arranged marriage, right?)

I am overfilled with joy as I look around and see the next generation.  Life has changed so much in the past few years.  My friends sat around talking about our 10 year reunion coming up in 2 weeks. 10 years ago we had no idea that life would twist and turn in the direction it has, but that’s all part of the ride.  Here’s how life has changed since you’ve entered our world…

*Our living room: What once was a room with a couch, a loveseat, and a recliner, now is a room bursting at the seams with a bouncer seat, a jumperoo, a bumbo seat, your toy box, and an activity mat.  It actually feels like we have extra room, because we took your swing down about a month ago.  If you walk in our house, it’s clear that a little girl is spoiled rotten here.

*Our social life: We pretty much let you set the schedule. Some parents swear by certain schedules, and it really works for them.  We follow your cues, and it works for us.  You tell us when you’re tired, and it’s starting to get more predictable.  You tell us when you’re hungry, and it’s usually 2 1/2 hours to the minute. 🙂  We don’t do a lot after 6, because we have a bedtime routine that really works for us.  This means that we see some of our friends a lot less, but we made that choice when we decided to start a family, and it’s a choice I certainly don’t regret.

*My personal hygiene: While your dad gets a shower every day, and you take a bath every night…I’m lucky to get one every other day, after you go to bed or a quick one during your nap.  I’ve used a blow dryer on my hair twice since you were born.  Last year I so much as got a chip in my toe-nail polish and I was getting another pedicure.  My last pedicure was in December… the month before you were born. You always are dressed in cute little outfits, I sometimes don’t make it out of my sweatpants.  The cool thing is… you think I’m just as good of a mom whether or not I put my make-up on, or if I squeeze my post-baby body into a pair of skinny jeans, or rock sweats for the day.

*Going out to eat: What’s that?  If they don’t have carry-out, you can usually count us out! You are way too interested in what I’m eating to take you out to eat right now!  We tried going to a restaurant in June.  It was just you, me, and Daddy.  I nursed you at the table with a cover and then let you sit on my lap while I ate.  10 seconds later, you dumped my entire glass of water on both of us…”to go, please.”

*My caffeine intake: When I became pregnant, I knew I could no longer do the 6 diet cokes a day routine.  I cut back to one a day and it became my special treat (ridiculous, I know.)  I couldn’t wait to sit in the hospital and drink a big ole 32 oz fountain diet coke.  Only, I didn’t.  The entire labor all I wanted was a diet coke.  It turns out they make you wait a while before you get to have anything to drink, and by the time I could have a drink, it was too late.  I had a half a diet coke the next day, and that was the last one I had.  You went a little crazy, and I told myself it was due to the caffeine.  It very well could’ve been because you were one day old, but in my mind, I was going to do anything I could to protect you. Bye-bye caffeine.

*Car rides:  If it’s over an hour, it’s not an option.  Sometimes you sleep, sometimes you squeal, and more often, you make crazy dinosaur noises the entire time…an hour is plenty long enough.

*Jersey: Our poor dog.  She was once my baby.  In fact, I told Grammy once that I was afraid I could never love anything as much as her.  Ha.  I love you, and I have to say, I love you a heck of a lot more than our dog.  She gets fewer trips to Dairy Queen, she no longer sleeps in bed with me, and I don’t cater to her every attempt to play fetch.

*Friendships: Some people come around more often now that you’re here.  Some people come around way less.  I’ve connected with other moms, and consider myself part of this larger network of people who are all trying to figure this parenthood thing out.

*Family: More particularly, my relationship with my mom (Grammy).  I have a hard time admitting when I need a little help.  I like to show the world that I can do most things on my own.  I break off way more than I can chew.  Grammy gets that.  She steps in and helps.  She picked up the phone 10 times a day during your first month when I wondered if it was ok that you spit up a little or if a little runny nose required a trip to the doctor.  Family has been the biggest blessing.  Your grandparents, great-grandparents, and aunt and uncles have embraced you in the biggest way.  If we are spending the weekend with family, I know that I won’t touch you unless it’s time for you to eat.  We’re so lucky to have family.

Life has changed.  It has changed a lot.  But nothing about this is a sacrifice.  There is absolutely NOTHING in the world that could be better than being your mom.  My life didn’t end the day you were born, it began.  I discovered a whole new purpose…a new passion…a drive to be the best for you.  Someday I’m told that I will be excited to leave you with a babysitter or take some “me” time.  Right now, my “me” time is just fine being “us” time.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

Today, you are 6 months old.  Whaaaaaat?  I’ve heard a million times that it will go fast, but wow, it flies.  Let me tell you a little bit about yourself at 6 months old.

-You look more and more like your daddy everyday.  You act more and more like your momma everyday. 🙂  It makes me a little nervous!  You’ve discovered your voice in the loudest way possible.  You like people to know that you are in the room.  Let’s hope as you get older you start to look more like your momma and act more like your daddy!

-You love to be upside down.  In fact, I think you are mildly obsessed with being upside down.  You constantly throw your head back trying to be upside down.  You are going to be an adrenaline junkie, I can tell already.  Just to forewarn you…I don’t ride rides, so you’ll have to do the roller coaster thing with your daddy.

-You love to swim.  (And I love to squeeze your chubby thighs into your swimming suits!)

-You have just figured out how to sit on your own.

-You love dogs.  When you get a little fussy, we put you on the floor next to Jersey and you cheer right up.  You also love Grammy and Pop’s new puppy, Echo.

-You are getting a little sassy in your old age.  You definitely make it clear when things aren’t going as planned.  You get this from your mom.

-You love to be sung to.  You have no idea that I have the worst voice in the world.  In fact, you like the way I sing, so I sing to you all the time.  I hope it stays this way for a long time.

-You take 2 good naps a day in your crib.  You will only sleep in your crib right now.  You don’t let me hold you anymore.  That’s bittersweet to me.  I’m glad you use your crib to sleep, but some afternoons, I wouldn’t mind a 2 hour cuddle session.  You also will only sleep with your giraffe on one side and a thin blanket on the other side.  I know, I know, you’re not supposed to put anything in the crib, but you insist.  You pull your giraffe blankie over your eyes like a sleep mask.  Cracks me up every time.

-Probably your favorite time of the day (besides eating) is bath time.  You’ve always liked bath time.  At first, you loved to kick your feet in the water.  Now, you love to chase your rubber ducky, hold onto your washcloth, and occasionally, you’ll even fall asleep in the tub.  I look forward to bath time every night.

-You no longer want a pacifier, all you want is your first two fingers.

-You pretty much are a social butterfly.  You love everyone (especially other kids), but you really love Grammy.  You light up when you see her.  You two are quite the pair.  She has helped us so much.  She was here right after we came home from the hospital, and lately, she’s really helped out after your dad had knee surgery.  It’s crazy to think that one day I might be helping you with your first baby.

– You have the cutest floppy white hat.  I tell myself that I put it on you to block the sun from your eyes, but let’s be honest, it’s a fashion statement.

I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this yet, but you are my world.  Every day, you surprise me with your new tricks.  I live for the mornings when I walk in to get you from your crib and you greet me the biggest smile.  We’ve been blessed with such an easy, happy baby.  Everyone keeps saying, “Just wait until________” and they tell me that one day you will have an attitude.  Or just wait until she talks back to you, tells you she hates you, etc…  I’m getting really tired of hearing that.  For right now, I choose to ignore the just waits and focus on the right nows.  Right now, you are my little girl.  You giggle when we dance.  You squeak when you get excited.  You twirl your ankles when someone walks in the room that you like.  You try to tickle me when you’re eating.  Right now, you continue to show me that there is no better job in the world, than just being your mom.

Happy 6 months sweet girl.

I love you,

Your mom.