Dear Ingrid,
Unbelievably, you are one year old today. I spent the last few days looking at the clock and remembering specifics of your entry to the world, remembering eating at Wendy’s with your dad, watching The Amazing Race, getting put off for induction on the 18th, over and over again. Today, I looked at the clock and did it more often… 5:45, wasn’t that about when we went to the labor room? And around 7, I think that’s when we called Amy. At 1:30, I’m pretty sure that everyone in our room was napping around then, 4:30, pushing alone with Aunt Amy and your Dad, 5:23… 5:23, when you were officially, definitely one year old. Now, as I write this, at almost 8, I think I was settled in my recovery room, marveling at your long wrinkly feet with your dad. Or haplessly attempting to put you in a newborn sleeper gown we brought from home, not daring to try too hard, for fear of breaking you, and eventually giving up, because pulling the gown over your head proved too difficult. All of those brand new parent worries, and now we’re pulling you out of potted plants and baby swings.
This year has flown by, your babyhood dissolving into toddlerhood, daily, and I’ve tried so hard to savor every minute, remember every detail, without accidentally working so hard to remember what just happened that I don’t see what’s happening right now. For instance, right now you are on the floor, squealing at the kitty, spinning around from new toy to new toy, clapping your feet together happily. One new toy is a ride-on thing with a seat that lifts up to put things in. (And a very loud set of sound effects, that have already been dulled by packing tape over the speaker.) You like to put things in, so you’ve been doing that, and then you spin around to a toy that has those pop-up things – push a lever, something pops up and makes a noise. And even now, in writing that, you’ve moved on to playing with the cell phone that came with your riding toy, holding it to your ear, babbling, and then handing it back to your dad, taking turns. It goes. so. fast. Before I had you, people said that, but I had no idea what they really meant until you got here. In a blink, you are one.
At one, you are now crawling — a new development in the last two weeks and still not employed at full capacity, as you find your butt/hand/knee pivot to be a quicker way to maneuver about. You try to pull up, and get up on your knees, but can’t quite get to your feet. You have 6 teeth that we can see, and we keep thinking you’re teething the last week or so, but haven’t yet seen proof. You love to read, and be read to, and you’ve mastered the art of pointing, clapping, and waving. You are working on the “roooooolll it” part of “Pat a Cake,” especially when Grammy S visits.
This month, you attended my master’s hooding, and spent 3 hours happily content in the stands of the Alfond. It took you a minute to recognize me in regalia, after. When I actually finished my degree, you were there, my advisor holding you in her lap in the education lab as I presented my information. And before that, I first felt you kick in the ed lab, my morning sickness was satisfied with bowlfuls of fresh pineapple in the union, and even before that, it was on campus, getting pre-semester stuff taken care of with Uncle Andy, that I had my first inklings of you. I remember telling Andy, walking by the MCA, “I’m about 90% sure I’m feeling the same way I did last time…” I didn’t even want to tell your dad, because our earlier experience had shaken us so, that I didn’t want to get him excited or nervous without proof. But that day, I knew. You’re beginnings are closely tied to my university, and finishing my degree and becoming a mother are two of my proudest accomplishments, two things that have brought me incredible satisfaction and joy.
Today, for your birthday, we didn’t do much. I had to work at a graduation with Grammy and Grampy S, and Grammy G and your local Aunties came and visited while I was gone. Your dad and I got you a wagon, your grandparents got you an ear thermometer and a savings bond (our practical gift-giving is generations old, my bug) and you grammy and aunties brought you some toys and clothes. Even the neighbors brought you a toy, remembering that it was your first birthday. I made cupcakes for you, a spice cake mix and a cream cheese frosting, and you liked the frosting but were a little iffy on the cake. No big parties, no extravagant gifts, but that’s okay.
For a while now, when you feel especially lovey, if you’re facing me, in my lap, you’ll tip your forehead down until it meets mine, and you’ll look over the top of my glasses and into my eyes, and rock your head back and forth, and smile. We call it the forehead kiss, and you don’t just forehead-kiss me, but others as well. It’s such a weird little quirk, so very Ingrid, and I love it. When your grandparents were watching you last week, they said you forehead-kissed a stuffed bunny. Someday, you’re going to learn how to kiss for real, and you’ll probably drop the forehead kiss from your repertoire, but it is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced, to have my daughter’s eyelashes almost touching mine, seeing her grin in my peripheral vision, her eyes sliding closed, contentedly, and then leaning back, having been reset, ready to wiggle off to play with something else, to point at daddy’s hat, to make mama’s hands clap, to lunge for the kitty.
I love you Ingrid. Happy Birthday.
Love, Mama
