Dear Vivian {Month 3}

Dear Vivian,


Happy three month birthday. Someone needs to figure out how we can slow time down--it's just going too fast. You're over nine pounds now, and you're spending a lot of time playing, exploring, looking. I love it.


I know every mother says this about her own child, but you really are such a wonderful baby. You are so easy to take care of. You love to hang out, whether it be in my arms or on your play mat. You are just so sweet and mellow. Which actually helps me so much, because it reminds me to relax and enjoy the ride. You are a happy girl, and I can't tell you what your contented nature does to calm my heart. See, you're already teaching your mama things.

You have started sleeping in long stretches at night. At first, this was unsettling. If it had been longer than three hours, I would jump out of bed and quick!, make your bottle, muttering to myself about what a bad mother I was to let you go so long without eating. Now I've figured out you're still eating enough, you just eat more often during the day, which allows you to sleep longer at night. You are a smart cookie-- you had it all figured out, didn't you? Thank you, by the way, for the gift of a little extra sleep.


Speaking of which, Vivian, I admit I do love our nighttime feedings. It's like a little slumber party, just for us, while the rest of the world is quiet. I never expected to find these times so endearing, but they are among my favorite moments with you. I will miss these times most, I think, while you are in the hospital. We watch the waning or waxing moon through the ponderosa pines. Sometimes we see an opossum creep along the back fence. Last night a star shone so brightly through the trees that I thought it was an airplane, but it wasn't moving. It was a bright shining star, like you are to me.


Your smiles are still fleeting, but my stomach still does happy flip flops when I catch them. Dad and I have probably taken 300 photos trying to capture your smile--but it's an elusive treasure. And while I can't wait for you to be smiling all the time, I'm sure I'll look back on this time and remember how special it was when you graced us with that beautiful smile so unexpectedly.


In these days leading up to your surgery, I've been memorizing you. The way your fingers gently rest on my wrist while I feed you. The way your eyebrows raise as if you're wondering what I'll say next. The way your eyes find me and follow me. The way you kick, kick, kick your legs when you're happy. You love to have your back tapped in a quick and strong rhythm when you need to be calmed. I've memorized the way your head rests on my shoulder--you are a perfect fit for me, and I expect you always will be.


Daddy is still partial to calling you "Chubs" or "Hot Rod" these days. I find myself calling you "Big Girl" or "Love Bug" or sometimes just "Bug." Grandma calls you "Sweet Blossom" and I think that is a perfect name for you.


You are snoozing on my shoulder as I type this. Oh, Vivian, this is a wild ride we're on. But I know you're here to teach me things. To teach me about strength and love and hope and faith and joy. I'm being pushed and pulled into places I never thought I'd be, but we're going there together as a family. And when I get scared, that brings me comfort. So many people love you, Vivian. So many people--people who haven't even met you--are keeping you in their thoughts and prayers. They're carrying your heart in theirs, and this is a beautiful thing. It makes me feel good about bringing you into this world-- a world where, yes, there is sadness and sorrow, but so much good, too. An overwhelming amount of goodness.

Big heaps of love with freshly whipped cream and a cherry on top,
Mama