Letter to My Daughter On Her First Birthday

Dear Josephina,

For your first birthday, I wanted to write you a letter like one Marmee would write to her daughter, Josephine March. You’re named after her, you know. I remember telling someone in 9^th grade—a popular girl I didn’t know very well who had mysteriously decided to sit at my table in the cafeteria that day—that someday I was going to have a daughter and I was going to name her Josephine. Her reply was a very serious and thoughtful, “That’s a good name. A strong name.” Of course, that was before I met your father and took his last name and realized that Josephine Green sounded like a Dr. Seuss character. So Josephina you became, and it suits you perfectly. It was a name a long time in the making, just like this letter. Sometimes dreams come true. Sometimes really big dreams come true.

It’s a very popular mom cliche to say that you felt intense, complete love the moment you laid eyes on your baby. It’s right up there with “Because I said so” and “Don’t make me turn this car around.” And it’s true. But it’s not the whole story. I also felt terror. (And disorientation, and exhaustion, and a hankering for Taco Bell, but I digress.) You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, otherworldly beautiful, like you belonged in a Renaissance painting, and I, woefully unprepared and unworthy, was responsible for you. I immediately wished I had brought my baby books to the hospital, because I suspected diaper-changing would be a complex origamic art beyond my comprehension.

Those early days were hard. Your eyes fluttered and I thought you were having a seizure. Your dad flew off to Target to buy formula and had a panic attack in Aisle 5, the weight of fatherhood suddenly hitting him like a ton of Pampers. Breastfeeding was an unexpected challenge that took me weeks to master. We had no idea what we were doing. Your colic was intense, and we would spend hours pacing the halls with you, driving in circles with you in the carseat. Daddy even slept sitting up holding you until he got a cyst on his tailbone from it. (Marmee would never have talked about butt cysts. Sorry, kiddo.) Sometimes I cried right along with you. Daddy always said you were colicky because you were so spirited and you hated being helpless. I think he was right. The more independent you became, the happier you were. And now you’re the happiest person I’ve ever met (so you can cool it with the independence for a while).

We’ve had some good times, my love. If I were to list them, they would sound cliche—rocking your soft, sleeping body. Watching Daddy melt into a Daddy-shaped puddle the first time he looked at you. Laughing at you when you tasted your first banana and turned into a banana zombie. Seeing you meet your incredibly proud grandparents for the first time. It’s the stuff of every baby book, a carbon copy of every other parent’s memories. But every moment of it was special and extraordinary because you are so special and extraordinary. You didn’t just reach for an object for the first time, you grabbed it with your trademark zeal, as if you were claiming your place on this planet. Everything you do illuminates the world a little because you are so full of light. Everything you do makes me proud.

Before I met you, I didn’t know if I was “maternal.” I wondered if I was “mom material” the way Jennifer Garner’s character is in Juno. But when you came along, I realized that I wasn’t some generic, abstract, TV version of a mom. I was your mom. Josephina Rownan’s mom. That, I can do. That, I’m qualified for. I will never be a perfect mother, but I know we are perfect for each other. And I will spend my life trying to be deserving of the wonderful work of raising you.

One of my favorite lines in the movie Little Women is what Friedrich says when he’s gazing adoringly at our favorite March girl: “Jo. Such a little name for...such a person.” There are no words that can contain you, just as there are no words that can contain how much I love you. The first time I saw you, I thought, “That’s my baby? I get her? Am I dreaming?” and I’ve thought the same thing every day since. My spunky monkey, my vibrant, smart, sweet, funny, beautiful, free daughter, you are the center of my heart and the joy of my life and I am lucky beyond all reason to be your mother.

Happy birthday, baby. I can’t wait to see what the next year holds.

Love,
Mama

This child. She's a mystery wrapped in a stinky enigma. We've always thought it was funny how, beneath her colicky (cowlicky?) exterior, she's utterly (udderly?) easygoing. The only thing that seems to bother her is boredom. Loves a diaper change. Loves putting clothes on. Loves a hat. Loves a bath. I can't tell you how many times I've done something or watched her do something to herself that I was sure was going to elicit some outraged response only to be proven entirely wrong. Rectally taking her temperature comes to mind--she didn't even notice and was totally content. Or the first time I poured water over her head. She got this absolutely shocked, frozen expression on her face and I held my breath waiting for the silent scream that was surely coming. Instead she looked at me and grinned. What? I mean, I cried when I got water in my face until I was like...10. Okay, it was last week. But really. She gets it in her eyes and everything and she just finds it amusing. She crazy. I love her.

thankful

This started out as a Jo-related "Things I'm Thankful For" list but then I realized that would be like making a list of your favorite breaths. So many favorite games, treasured familiarities and sweet surprises. So many intimacies and revelations and ordinary miracles. Honestly, there isn't a single moment that doesn't deserve its own kneeling, ground-kissing, reverent "thank you."

So I'll simply say that I'm eternally, completely, passionately thankful for my incredible daughter, every cell and second of her, my monkey, my butternut, my Josephina Rownan.

High Needs Babies

As most of you know, almost since the day Jo was born, we suspected there was something different about her. Not just that she was super smart, super cute, and extraordinarily awesome (duh), but that she seemed to cry and fuss much more than a typical baby, and that she demanded a higher level of care and engagement than the average baby. We assumed, and were told, that this was colic. We were never totally satisfied with this explanation, though. It explained why she cried so much, but it didn't explain the rest of her behavior: Why was she so hyper? Why did she need constant stimulation? Why did she want to eat so often? Why were her screams so intense? Etc.

It seemed that whenever we weren't baby-wrangling, Tim was on the internet searching for possible answers. (I say Tim because a long time ago he banned me from Google. This is because I would look something up and some website would say something like that "It is probably gas, but it might be A FATAL BRAIN TUMOR" and I would totally freak out. Google is evil.) A couple weeks ago, he found this.

Have you ever taken one of those Kiersey temperament quizzes and read your results and been almost freaked out because it's so scarily accurate? That's what it was like reading about what Dr. Sears calls "High Need" babies. It was like Dr. Sears had been spying on Josephina. So dead-on. Almost every characteristic described her perfectly (I say "almost" because we don't really know yet if she has separation anxiety). It was a relief to know there's a name for this, and that it's strictly behavioral--there is nothing physically wrong with High Needs babies, and they're not mentally impaired in any way. Actually, they're quite smart; possibly too smart for their own good.

It's also a relief to know, according to Dr. Sears (we also bought his book on the subject), that we've been doing all the right things. With High Needs babies, it's important to meet their needs and respect their boundaries and not try to "toughen them up" or try to force them into being typical babies, as the latter doesn't mesh well with their sensitive, highly perceptive personalities, and can teach them that the world is an unpredictable place and their parents aren't dependable. We've listened to our intuition from day one on that--feeding her whenever she wanted to eat, holding her when she needed to be held, not letting her "cry it out" in her crib, etc--and I'm really glad.

The bad news about this is that...well, it's hard. Hard for her, hard for us. Hard to see your precious baby cry so much and know there's nothing you can do to make her happy. Hard to have to be constantly stimulating to keep her calm. Hard to run on so little sleep. Hard not to know when or if she'll improve. Hard to hear about other babies that seem so different from Jo (We hate "Bringing Home Baby" couples with their "Honey, the baby cried for TEN MINUTES STRAIGHT today!" and "She's fussing again and it's only been 3 hours!" As Kevin James would say: "SHUTTY.") . It's not really scary, or sad, or anything horrible, and it's not more than we can handle. It's just hard.

I'm atheist, so I don't believe that Jo was hand-picked by a higher power especially for us or vice versa. But if life did work that way, I do think we would be chosen for her and she for us. No parents could be better for her than we are. We get her. We like her. We love her completely. We do anything she needs and are happy to do it. We're far from perfect, but we're perfect for her. And she strengthens us. Our marriage. Our patience. I'll never regret not spending every minute with her, because she demands that we spend every minute with her. And she's saving us tens of thousands of dollars throughout the years, because we are so not doing this again. (Kidding. Sort of.)

Plus, her high-maintenanceness (totally a word) is a small price to pay for such an incredible kid. I knew from the minute I laid eyes on her that she was special. All children are special, and I know all parents say this, and I know it's an absolutely obnoxious and gag-worthy thing to say but...I truly believe she is marked for greatness. I believe she is just practicing for the Presidency really early. I believe baby Jesus was a High Needs baby. He screamed the cows right out of that barn, trust. Those angels peaced out real quick. That's right, I went there. I just compared my baby to Jesus. And?

Anyway, we're glad to have a definition for Jo's unique behavior, and hopeful that there's a light at the end of the tunnel. In the meantime, we'll continue making the most of every moment--the hard ones and especially the happy ones.

A Day in the Life of Jo

6 am: Wake up. Let this be known by shouting "BAH!" Get pissed if it's more than 0.001 milliseconds before my dad comes to get me. He brings me to my mom so she can feed me. I'm super happy to see her and give her my biggest cutest smile. It's been like six whole hours and apparently she's been sleeping that WHOLE time. God, Ma, get a job. Milk AGAIN?!

6:30 am: Why'd you let me eat so much? Ugh. Get my diaper changed and a new outfit and then lay bloated on my playmat while my mom attempts to entertain me. She really makes a fool of herself sometimes.

7 am: Time for a nap. Mommy usually has to put TV static on pretty loud to coax me to sleep. If she tries to turn it down even gradually while I'm sleeping, I wake up immediately and start crying. It's pretty funny! Mom works while I sleep.

10 am: I'm awake! Whose diaper do you have to change to get a little milk around here? Mom changes me and then tries to get me to roll over on my playmat. I'm sooo over rolling over. Maybe the other 3 month olds are still doing that, but I'm a trendsetter. I sit up in the Bumbo or lean against the couch. I get a big proud smile on my face because I'm so awesome and smart. You don't have to be humble when you're a baby. You're going to work, Daddy? See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

11 am: Another nap?! WTF? This is an outrage. I have things to do. I have to pay my mortgage, invest in my 401K, get my eyebrows waxed, post my latest diaper outcome on Twitter, clean the ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

1 pm: Wake up. Mommy's usually cleaning something. I stare at her for a while. I'm in a pretty good mood. We chill. Gossip around the milk cooler. I usually sit on the couch like a big girl, or sit in my bumbo, or lay on the couch and Mommy plays with my toys while I look at her funny. Sometimes she puts on musical soundtracks and performs the songs for me complete with theatrical singing and dance numbers. She would be embarrassed if she knew I told you that, so keep it on the DL. She also sometimes straps me in the carrier and dances around with me. She says it's good exercise. She has to constantly entertain me or I get really upset. I know she loves a challenge!

4 pm: Daddy's home! I smile really big at him. Mommy seems really happy to see him too. She looks tired. I kick it with Big D for a while. He reads to me. I don't know who Faulkner is but he uses a lot of big words. I like Pat the Bunny because the bunny has soft fur. I mean, I'm a baby, what do you expect, a book report? Sometimes he takes pictures of me. My grandparents like looking at me because I'm America's Next Top Baby. I love going for a walk with him in the stroller. There's so much to see! Trees, old ladies, butterflies, an occasional crazy homeless guy....ah, Los Angeles.

5 pm: Mommy's eaten dinner so now Daddy eats. They try to watch TV (sometimes they even try to hold hands and cuddle with each other--barf!) but sometimes I don't let them. I'd rather scream and make them walk around with me. I hate it when they're comfortable. I like it when Mommy sits me in her lap with her arms around me and rocks back and forth while shushing in my ear. This means she can't see the TV, but whatever, that stuff rots your brain. Put on Sesame Street, please.

6 pm: If it's bath night, I have a bath. It's really relaxing and I'm usually a really good girl. Then they have the nerve to take me OUT of the glorious warm water! Can someone call CPS on them? I have to spend a whole second in the cold bathroom butt naked before I'm wrapped in my hooded towel and by then I'm so mad I just can't even deal. Now I'm going to be extra cranky all night. Thanks a lot. I look really cute with my wet hair sticking up all Alfalfa-like, though, so they forgive me.

7 pm: If I'm really unhappy, we all go for a drive in the car. I'm so big now I can hold my head erect in the carseat--until I fall asleep, and then Mommy has to hold it up for me because it flops all over the place. Mommy and Daddy use this time to talk about boring stuff. I really don't see why they need to talk about anything but me.

9 pm: I decide I hate everything with the passion of a thousands suns and want the whole world to know. Daddy tries to put me to bed for three hours (sometimes more!) while I scream my head off. Mommy tries to help and he tells her to go to bed. I don't think she can sleep very well when I'm crying. Sometimes I play a fun game where I fall asleep and my parents think I'm asleep for the night and just when they're falling asleep I wake up again! Guys? Why aren't you laughing?

12 pm: Asleep in my crib. I shouldn't have partied so late. I'm gonna really feel it in the morning.

She was the most beautiful pink all over. She even smelled pink. That sounds weird. I can't describe it--that little, pink, baby smell. The first time her eyes focused on me and her little fingers reached out...I was someone new. She had me. --Lorelai, Gilmore Girls

Because you're mine I walk the line.

I think Spiderman said it best: "With great power comes great responsibility."

And with great love comes great worry.

If there's a downside to the incredible, overwhelming, monumental, unbreakable love I have for my daughter, it's the worry. Everyone tells you, before you become a parent, that you're going to worry. People recite that quote, "To have a child is to have your heart go wandering around outside your body." Being a worrier by nature--and that's somewhat of an understatement--I believed it. I knew I'd be concerned about the well-being of my child. I just had no idea that it would be this acute, just like I had no idea the love would be this strong.

There are so many things to worry about. SIDS. Sickness. Accidents. Every day in the news, there are statistics about fatal diseases, stories of murders and strollers falling onto train tracks. Just today on MSN I read that 100 babies die from the flu every year. When I hold her, I could drop her. When she's sleeping, she could stop breathing. Anyone around her is a potential illness-spreader. We have to situate her right in the sling so she doesn't smother; we have to be careful bathing her so she doesn't slip; we have to maneuver her around with care so we don't hit her head or let it drop. Everything I do is an exercise in Making Sure She's Okay, which inevitably makes me think a lot about her Not Being Okay. And I'm not okay with her not being okay.

It's like: I want to be a super vigilant mom. I'm glad to be firm about holding her carefully, checking on her often when she's sleeping, not letting sick people visit, washing my hands frequently, not letting the cats go in her room, etc. I want to be careful and concerned and follow my maternal instinct in everything I do. She's a tiny baby; that's the way it should be. I just don't want to be so wracked with worry that I can't just relax and enjoy motherhood. I want to perform the actions necessary to ensure her health and safety without the emotional distress that accompanies those actions. When we're in the tub together for bathtime, I want to be thinking "Yay! Bathtime with my baby!" and not "Oh-god-don't-drop-her-don't-drop-her-don't-drop-her." Is that even possible? I don't know. I just know that the fact that something bad could happen to her and it's 100% my job to make sure it doesn't--it's a lot of pressure. And a lot of fear.

One of the things that amazed me about becoming a mother is how quickly I couldn't care less about myself anymore. I really couldn't. I have to force myself to think about my own health now and it's only because I need to be healthy in order to take care of her. All I care about is her. I would die before I would let a hair on her head be harmed. And that's a beautiful thing, that kind of epic love, but it's also a really scary thing. She depends on me for so much and I also have to depend on myself because I depend on her (and I just gave myself a headache). I always thought fear and love were polar opposites, but apparently they're just two sides of the same coin.

Is this normal parent stuff? Will I always feel this way? Will it get easier naturally or will I somehow find a way to get my baby business done without stressing about it? (Find out, on the next episode of Neurotic Mom!)