I spuddle.

Dear Bun*:

I can’t believe you are four years old. I meant to write you a letter every month from the moment you were born, a record of our life together (or my perspective of our life together) but then damn it if I didn’t just get so BUSY after you came along. How did that happen? Go figure.

I’m sorry. I didn’t even do a baby book. And you’re my first! Most people seem to do one for their first and then slack off after that. What can I tell you? I’m ahead of the curve.

When you were born, my back was so bad that I was already in the hospital because I could not move enough in any direction to drag my heft to the bathroom to pee. I don’t know if you know much about pregnant women in their last month of pregnancy but I’m telling you, it’s a lot about the peeing. For the rest of time, we will celebrate your birthday in addition to April 2, The Day That Mummy’s Bum Got Stuck Between the Stretcher and The Kitchen Floor and She Screamed Until The Paramedics Finished Their “Rest” and Picked Her Up Again. Anyway, even though the nurses in the hospital mocked my plight and said I wasn’t in labour, as it turns out I was. No one could have predicted that when I said, “When I give birth, I want to be surrounded by a team of medical professionals!” that this would come true in such a dramatic fashion. Can’t ultrasounds predict when heads are too big to emerge? Daddy is still waking up in a cold sweat when he recalls how the suction cup accidentally disconnected from your head, spattering the room with… who knows what? STUFF. Even the janitor sauntering in half-way through the process to change the clocks forward an hour did nothing to detract from the moment you were finally wrenched free and placed on my chest. That’s the moment I will remember forever. Well, I’ll remember all that other stuff, too, especially now that I’ve written it down. But it was for sure the high point.

We have had so much fun, you and me. I had no idea it would be like this. Actually, I thought there would be more breaks. You know, like naps. But you thumbed your nose at those pretty early in the game. I really really wish you’d learn to sleep through the night on your own, but if I’m being perfectly honest, I kind of love falling asleep with you in your big bed. You are so warm and darn cuddly. I can’t help it. I know one day you’ll be an ornery teenager and I doubt I’ll want to cuddle with you then, and I’m certain you won’t allow it. But I’ll miss this part, the cuddly part. Even the poop jokes.

Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Poop.
Poop who?
Poop poopy head up your nose in your PANTS.

I mean, that’s comedy gold. GOLD. If you’d thought of it, I’m sure Poop would have been your first word. I’m pretty sure it was Mama though. I didn’t write it down at the time, so I can make it up. One of the first ten was definitely “Clifford”. I thought that was pretty cool. Two syllables! Before you learned more obvious words, like “Milk!” I do remember that you took your first steps on June 20, 2006. I don’t know why I remember that date as I forget virtually every other date of importance, but I do. Up until that time, you just sat. You didn’t even scoot. You never crawled. It was like you were pretty happy to observe for the first fourteen months and then your big brother called you from the end of the hallway and you just got up and went. Nice style, kiddo.

How you went from this:

to this:

to this:

to THIS:

to now:

How did that happen? It’s a total cliche, but is it ever true: It goes by so fast. Now you are wanting to learn to read NOW so you don’t have to wait for me to read you stories. You are so tall, it’s almost comical. And so full of all your adult worries, that sometimes it’s like you pull my heart out and whap it around for a while before you put it back. I don’t want you to worry about who will die first and when. I want you to play. Laugh. Love. And enjoy every minute of this crazy ride.

I’ll try to write more often. It’s hard to do four years in one post. I’m leaving out most of the good stuff, but you and I know what it is. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got a bunch of pictures, too.

Huggle buggle,

Mummy.

* concept stolen from Dooce.

Filed under: Birthday Letter