Dear Parks,

A year ago right at this time I was in labor with you. The doctor had broken my water an hour previously and I was starting to feel some, ahem, rather “intense” contractions. I was still joking with your father at the time that the first thing I wanted when you “got out of my belly” was a 12 inch foot long from Subway considering they wouldn’t let me eat. I had no idea how 21 inches of infant was going to change every priority I had the instant you appeared and I was finally allowed to hold you. Let’s just say I still love a good sub sandwich but I wouldn’t run across a busy intersection risking life and limb just to hold it in my arms. No offense, Jared.

I had no idea what the next year of our lives would bring us. The hours spent NOT SLEEPING. The hours spent just staring out your face. The hours spent SCREAMING. And the hours spent NOT SLEEPING. Have I talked about the lack of sleep yet? I can’t remember, I’m tired.

Then there was the struggle of going back to work and balancing that life with a home life that afforded you all the love and time you needed and deserved. I’d like to say that we’ve won that struggle. I know that we do the best that we can on most days and you are so happy that I can’t think that the decisions we’ve made about raising you were bad ones. Except that one about deciding you were going to sleep in our bed. Not that I HATE an active kicking infant who has inherited her father’s propensity for kicking and slapping. It’s just that with two of you in the bed now, I’m not sure when your father is going to get arrested for spousal abuse due to the amount of bruising on my arms and legs incurred from a swift foot to the thigh or a roundhouse back handed slap when you decide to turn over. But waking up with you is worth all that. It’s like waking up with the Jimmy Dean sunshine man in bed only he’s MUCH cuter and he smells like heaven and when he giggles, well, my heart soars and I think I can do almost anything. Sausage biscuits don’t normally do that to me (at least they haven’t since I was pregnant). But, you definitely do.

I think about times just ten months ago when you were so teeny and you got your first fever and I held you all day just freaking out of my effing mind because you were so TINY and how could you get a FEVER? I thought it took at least twelve pounds to muster the energy to work up a good fever. We took you to the doctor and you not only had a fever, but a pretty good diaper rash, were allergic to milk and had a case of colic. I distinctly recall telling the doctor that I felt like, “The Baby was FALLNG APART”. And considering up until that point in my life I was pretty much like Nana in that I was the Valedictorian of Running Everything, I felt like a miserable failure. Good GOD, who was running this joint? Exactly. It was the first real lesson in motherhood I ever had. But, your father and I nursed you through that fever. We got you over that colic. And, ultimately, we kept you alive for an entire 12 months. I consider this a personal success.

Now, I practically laugh when you scream bloody murder as I drag you away from yet another normal household item that could possibly KILL YOU and tell you things like, ‘How bad for you that you have a mother that won’t let you suck on electrical outlets. You have a horrible life. I feel sorry for you.” Then I realize that when you get older, if you don’t start slapping me on purpose when you are awake, you are going to have one MEAN case of the “smart mouth” when you get to kindergarten. I’m waiting on the first call from the teacher when she tells me you’ve said, “Thank you, Captain Obvious” when she tells you that “tee tee goes in the potty” or something else inane required by Pre-K teachers.

Right now, when I tell you “NO” in my Most Severe And Stern Voice Ever, you immediately turn around, do what I was telling you not to do, and parrot back to me, “NO NO”. And then I laugh because I can’t help it and I let you completely dismantle the sound system to the television because, hey, we can buy another one, right? And you just look so damn cute. You now refer to all the things in the house that you aren’t allowed to touch as “no no’s” and your father is worried that you will grow up asking to turn on the “no no’s” in the room so you can see.

There isn’t a day that goes by that your Nana doesn’t call me and declare you a “genius” and most of the time I agree. Except if it’s one of those days you’ve tried to eat cat food or something of that nature. Then I tell her maybe we should hold off on our predictions until you speak English and we can actually ascertain if your IQ is above that of a towel rack. Or, maybe you are just a genius who appreciates the complete vitamin nutrition contained in the tiny little bites of cat food. Who knows?

The other day you stayed home with your dad as I had to work and Nana couldn’t keep you one Friday. I came home at lunch to find your father and you drooling asleep in the bed. You were wearing nothing but a diaper with a paci half falling out of your mouth and your father was pretty much in the same position minus the diaper and the paci. He woke up and I asked him what you had eaten for breakfast and he pronounced, rather proudly, that you had “some strawberries, a few cheerios, and some pepperoni”. I think this shows how far we’ve come in relaxing our rules concerning child care around here.

Just last night you fell down, hit your head, got very upset and then I swear to GOD you said something that sounded just like, “I want my MAMA” and you crawled to me and curled up in my arms and I held you and rubbed your sore noggin and told you that you were okay. And, inside, I died just a little knowing that soon you wouldn’t ask for me when you were hurt. That there will be a day when curling up with your MAMA isn’t an option and you will bonk your head and go about your business. Lord knows I do this pretty regularly. But there isn’t a day that goes by that inside I don’t WANT my Mama when I bonk my noggin, say something stupid, or just in general feel miserable and need some comfort.

And, all I can hope, is that 32 years from now, when you are my age, I have done a good enough job that you still feel that way too.

Happy Birthday, Toodle Bug. You are now officially a “toddler” and no longer a “baby”. I expect all that crying and pooping in diapers nonsense to end post haste.

In the infinite wisdom of N'Sync (and as a tribute to your Godmother Elizabeth whom you were named for) I leave you with these words, "Bye Bye, Baby, Bye Bye..."

I love you now and forever,
Your Mama