9/2 months

Dearest Son,

I love that I get to celebrate your birth and the date we were made a family on the same day.  I love that every Friday I wake up with a song in my heart, not because it is TGIF, but because Friday will always and forever be the day we became a family.  It’s my own little holiday—a celebration of yet another week that we have been family.  Nine week family, two months as a family and nine months since you entered the world and stole my heart.

I mark my time BD and AD—before you and after you.  My life feels too long in comparison to you—how could you have not been a part of it from the beginning?   How did I survive my mornings without your smile?  You, sweet son, are turning me into a person that loves morning. 

Your laugh is still the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.  Evidently you think the same of mine.  From the beginning, from our first hours and days in Vietnam, people would comment that you would smile and giggle when you heard me laugh.  I remember our time in the orphanage—oh how I laughed through my tears!  You laid your hand on my face and watched me so intently.  You placed your fingers over my lips feeling my lips move under your fingers.  Even now after nine weeks of bottles, you still lay in my arms with your bottle at your lips and a hand on my face or lips. 

When we were out yesterday visiting with your doting aunties they reported that you started imitating my laugh while I was in the car hunting down wayward toys.   You giggle a lot.  After I giggle (and vise versa), when you are tired, when you see your bottle full of formula ready for your belly and when you are amused by someone or something. 

I think about your birth mom—the woman and people that knew you first. I find my sadness and jealousy intertwining leaving me with a jumble of emotions that are sometimes hard to describe, let alone process.  I feel a deep sense of sadness for your first mother—every time you smile your double-dimple grin or you laugh at something I am doing or discover something new—I think of her and all that she is missing.  And a new feeling has emerged as the weeks pass—jealousy.  I could never have given birth to someone so perfect and so perfectly matched for my family, but I can’t help but wish I was one of the first people to see you.  To see you breathe in that first breathe and smile your first smile.  There are so many empty spaces between that time and now.  I wish I could fill them in somehow and put the puzzle of you together—to marvel at the way you were so perfectly knit together by two people I don’t know.  

I never knew to pray for someone as incredible as you.  I had prepared myself for a sickly, pale, underweight child and you were none of those things!  Just the other day I was telling Oma that I was amazed at how quickly my sun rose and set on you.  That with one smile or giggle I forget that you are pulling my hair or terrorizing the cat. 

I love to watch you learn.  You focus so intently on everything that is in front of you.  Your look is so intense you look as if you are glaring.  So many new things going on:

• seven and a half teeth (ok, it’s not quite out, but your gums are definitely hurting.
• blowing bubbles.  And you are really good!  Sometimes you even blow your food.  It cracks me up so bad I can’t help but laugh.  Probably not the best thing to do.
• You LOVE to turn the lights off and on.   It took a few times, but now your little fingers flip it pretty easily.  If only you could feed yourself your own Puffs…
• you are growing!  I see your face changing constantly and while I didn’t think it was possible, you get cuter every single day.  And if the ache in my arms is any indication, I think you have finally started gaining weight.  You finally have your very own Buddha Belly!
• You love people more than you love toys.  I love that about you.
• You hate it when I eat and don’t share my food with you.  You just stare at me with big puppy dog eyes.  You don’t whine—you let your eyes do all the work.
• You pull up all the time and walk down the hall while holding on to the wall.  I know you’ll be happier when you are finally walking and I suspect that moment will arrive all too soon.

Every morning I walk in to your room  and listen to you coo.  Eventually you look up and see me.  You smile and clap and I feel like the most important person in the world.  Every day, whether we have a good day or not, I am thankful for that day with you.