Dear Reese,
Happy Birthday, darling! You are one today.
One year together. One year of figuring it out together. One year of being so grateful, every day, that you are my daughter.
Even in the hardest days — those early days of sleep deprivation and colicky crying, where any sign of your unhappiness threatened to send me into a spiral — I was still in awe of what a miracle you are.
Today is a day dedicated to celebrating your miracle.
I don’t believe in school or work on birthdays, so we take the day off to spend together. You wake up before 6 am, and, although I really would have preferred another 30-45 minutes, today I follow your lead and sing you happy birthday while I turn on the lights.
We go for breakfast at Julie’s Park Cafe with MorMor and Cappi. You have eggs and pancakes, and charm everyone who passes by with your smile. The hostess gives you a special purple tube of bubbles since it’s your birthday. After, you nap in the stroller while we walk around the marina in Fish Creek, and then we go hang out at the cottage for a couple of hours.
Your snack this afternoon: another peanut butter chocolate (Reeses) cupcake. Then we head to Troup Park. Today is the first day it’s felt like summer, truly. It hits 80 degrees and I lather you with sunscreen. We sit at the waterline and I look out at the bay — this is the same beach where MorMor played as a kid, the same beach where I played. Now, you splash in the water next to me.
You are also on the verge of standing on your own — you practice at the park, squatting low and starting to stand up, but reaching out to me for a little guidance. I barely support you, and you stand there on your own for a few moments. You did something similar in the morning. I half expect you to start walking by the end of the week, but who knows?
It’s all a big adventure, still.
While you nap in the early afternoon, I read the early letters I wrote to you in a Google Doc. The first one was written about six hours after you were born, just past midnight. I can still remember the anxiety, the exhaustion, the disbelief. And god, the wanting, the love.
In a part of the letter, I wrote:
Is motherhood jumping off a cliff and realizing that you don’t know how to fly the second your feet leave the ground? We are going to have to learn to fly together.
You and me, kid. Learning to fly. One year in the books.
Love,
Mama
Happy 1st Birthday to Reese! So happy for you both! 🥳🎉