Year 1

Dear Alice,

You're a year old. Actually, you're a year, two weeks, and one day old. The Perfect Mom in my head would have written this on the actual day of your birth, but the Actual Mom spent that day with you at the zoo and the evening in the kitchen agonizing over a ladybug-shaped birthday cake. Frankly, I've spent a lot of the past year negotiating the distance between Actual Mom and Perfect Mom. Some days it's been greater than others.

I was never a huge fan of kids before you came along, and in some ways I'm still not. But from the time you were born I've always thought you were a bit of an old soul. At the very least, I didn't expect for you to have such a defined personality so early. Already you are smart, funny, and fiercely independent. You want to do everything yourself--hold your spoon, brush your teeth, put on your socks, comb your hair. Since you lack the fine motor skills to actually do most of that yet, things sometimes get interesting. You're both amazingly persistent and easily frustrated. Your dad says you have my temperament in that respect. Sorry.

Before you were born I used to worry that I'd have an ugly baby and wouldn't like her. Luckily for me, of course, I didn't have to find out, because you are gorgeous, and I'm saying that objectively. Everyone thinks so, even the ones who assume you're a boy because your jacket is green or your t-shirt has a hot dog on it. Your dad and I can't figure out where we got this Aryan baby, because we both have green eyes (the Mendel square said 75% chance of green) and you were born with such dark hair. But you're blond and blue-eyed and still look ridiculously like your dad. Every once in awhile someone who doesn't know him says you look a lot like me, but I don't see it. You do occasionally remind me of old baby pictures of myself, though, so maybe there's a resemblance buried in there somewhere.

When you were an infant I used to joke that you had a good sense of humor for an X-month old. But you totally do. You're generally a happy, smiley baby, and you laugh at the usual stuff like being tickled, and also bizarre things like when your dad kills bugs with the fly swatter. You also think it's hilarious when I tell you no, and you openly defy me to do things like splash in Jack's bowl or stand in the bathtub, looking over your shoulder to make sure I'm watching and smiling and laughing when I tell you no. You have more of a temper than I expected in someone so tiny, and you are grossly offended when I presume to do things like change your diaper or put your pajamas on. I recently discovered existentialism and have decided that it fits you well, since you seem to be all about personal freedom at all costs.

Your pediatrician says you have a lot of words for a 12-month-old. Given your parents, I can't say that I'm surprised. Right now we can say with reasonable certainty that you are saying hi, bye, mommy, daddy, Jack, duck, sock, and uh-oh. I'm pretty sure you're also at least attempting to say book and balloon. The other day when we came home from daycare I swear to god you said "Hi, Jack," which would be your first sentence and absolute proof that you are a genius. Your favorite food is cheese, which is ironic, considering that I had to give it up for 6 months because of your supposed intolerance. That better figure into your valedictorian speech somewhere, along with my Herculanean attempts at breastfeeding and the aforementioned ladybug cake drama.

You like books. I can't even express how happy that makes me. You "read" them while you're having your diaper changed, or at your little table, or in the middle of the kitchen floor. You hold them upside down and sometimes when we're reading your bedtime story you'll throw it on the floor just to hear what it sounds like. You like to turn the pages yourself, so I have all of the regulars memorized--Goodnight Moon, Snuggle Puppy, On the Night You Were Born--and the phrases run through my head all day long. Right now we are reading something called Bedtime Kiss for Little Fish and I'm hoping that I can get "Night is dark, baby shark" to catch on, maybe as a greeting or pickup line.

Now that you've been in the world for a whole year, I'm doing that thing that I did after London, where I say, "A year ago today, I was..." But it's also hard for me to remember much about those early weeks. I suppose that's nature's way of ensuring that people will have more than one child. The first few weeks of your life were very, very rough for me, but already the details of exactly why are beginning to elude me. I do know that I consider, and my always consider, not being able to successfully breastfeed you as one of the worst failures of my life, and, because this is how I am, the fact that I fed you breast milk for almost ten months as no particular achievement. And I still remember your little bunny face, fists on either side, looking up at me during those failed attempts.

Being your mom has been the most exciting, frustrating, humbling, tedious, and important thing that I have ever done. I worry on a daily basis that I'm doing it wrong, although time, Zoloft, and a quirky therapist have helped make that manageable. Apparently perfectionism and parenting are not always a good combination. The funny thing is that so many of the things I obsessed and lost sleep and cried hysterically about are things that I've since discovered we were way ahead on--friends have one-and-a-half and two-year-olds who are still using pacifiers and bottles and waking three times in the night. As of today--knock on fake wood--you are sleeping almost 12 hours a night, have been using a cup exclusively since 10 months, and (at least at home) gave up your pacifier at 6 months. Each of those was an epic struggle for me and, in more than one case, ultimately no sweat for you.

You have changed not only my entire life, but also me as a person. Sometimes when I look in the mirror I don't recognize myself, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I missed things like exercise and reading the newspaper and going out for a drink after work. But I also have an intense physical need to be around you as much as possible, even when you're driving me crazy and someone like Toni Morrison is speaking downtown. Lately you're still asleep when I leave for work and it's so hard to walk out the door without having seen your cheerful or even crabby face. I am tyrannical when it comes to our bedtime routine, and I hate sharing you with your grandparents or even your dad sometimes.

You're my favorite person. I want to be your best friend forever. As much as I laugh at your dad for panicking about your future boyfriends I'm already dreading the first time you say "I hate you" and think for even five minutes that you mean it.

You are waking up from a hard-won nap now, and I can't wait to see your disheveled curls and kiss your saucy face. As one of our favorite books says, There has never been anyone like you ever in the world, and I feel so lucky that you landed here, with me.

Happy birthday + 2 weeks, bunny.

Love,

Your mommy