“Nothing worthwhile is easy, Ellen.  You know that.”  –Clark W. Griswold, while putting dirty dishes into the cabinet.

My wide-eyed, hungry, snuggly, brand-new Callum,

Here we are, the first of the last.  This is the last one-month letter I will write to my baby.  Even if your dad and I hadn’t already decided that three would be our stopping point, your entrance into the world would have solidified the deal.  I’ve documented your birth story elsewhere, so I won’t go into gruesome detail here, but I will mention that it was the most difficult ordeal of my life to date.

But that wasn’t your fault.  At least you didn’t do it on purpose.  We’ll see if refusing to put your head in the correct position remains an issue in your life.  I can imagine it messing up school pictures and possibly dental care, but otherwise, there doesn’t seem to be much for lasting consequences.

Photo by Gary Clarke

Now we’re home together.  I’m still restricted from doing a lot, but I’ve managed to heal up pretty well.  I’m not going to lie:  the early weeks were rough.  I was a mess physically and emotionally.  I hadn’t realized how much of my self-concept was tied up in being “good” at giving birth.  I know, I know, ending up with a caesarian isn’t a comment on my value as a human being, but it still shook my perceived identity as a mother and a person.  I hated feeling so physically weak and out of control of my body.  I couldn’t take care of you as well as I wanted, nor of your brothers.  I didn’t recognize my scarred-up abdomen that wouldn’t even let me sit up in bed if I was late on my narcotic pain relievers.

Luckily, we have great friends and family who helped us.  Most notable among them is your dad, who never once balked at doing more than 50% of the work to support our whole family.  We’re working on finding a balance now that things have calmed down, and I think we’re getting close.  It’s hard in the ways I knew it would be:    the low-sleep nights and readjusting to breastfeeding and trying to find the energy reserves to give your brothers what they need.  It’s also hard in new ways.  As your dad knows well from having been married to me for nearly 10 years, I have a hard time with sudden changes of plan.  I don’t mean to be histrionic here, but I went into your birth confident, and I came out deeply shaken.

Photo by Denny

You, on the other hand, came out just fine.  Despite some scary moments that led us into the operating room, you rocked your APGARs and cried that gorgeous cry.  From behind the “you don’t really want to see your own intestines outside your body” curtain, I needed so much to hear that cry.  Thank you for doing it so robustly.  I couldn’t see you at that moment, but your dad tells me you peed twice for extra punctuation.

Amid all the difficulties surrounding your arrival, I’ve never doubted the miraculousness of you.  I can honestly say that all my struggles have been with myself.  You are a treasure.  We spend a lot of time gazing at each other.  I study your tiny, curved eyebrows and intricate little ears.  You look up at my eyes and hold the stare for a long time.  Your cheeks are getting chubby and your lips make sucking motions in your sleep.  You have a birthmark on your left leg.  If I got out a magnifying glass, I could see the tiny fingerprints on your tiny fingers.  I had to trim one of your fingernails last night, and while of course I didn’t want you to scratch yourself, I felt a twinge of regret at having to throw a part of you away.  Note:  I did not feel that way about your umbilical stump, which I was happy to toss in the trash.

Your brothers love you insanely.  They always want to hold you and talk to you and marvel about how you like to look at them.  I’m sure they’re very entertaining.  You’ve got two guys who are going to look out for you for the rest of your days.  They’ll each teach you different things, based on their own areas of expertise and personalities.  You’ll teach us things only you know, too.  It’s hard to gauge your personality so far.  You are happiest in someone’s arms, though you sometimes need a break from stimulation and like to just hang out in your swing.  You like art, especially the Wee Gallery canvases on your walls and our Chris Vance series.  You are tolerant of noise, which isn’t surprising, since you’ve been hearing your brothers hollering since the day your inner ear bones clicked into place.

We are past the hardest part now, my love.  I feel better every day—I even forgot to take my ibuprofen the other night, and it was no big deal.  You’re getting used to this world.  You eat well, sleep pretty well, and are even starting to smile.  I love the fact that I’m the one you smile at the most.  You’re not going to need me forever, but I’m pretty sure I’m always going to need you.

Let’s soak up these quiet mornings we have together as you melt into my shoulder.  I don’t want to forget the shudders and sighs you make in your sleep or the smell of your fuzzy little head.  You are my last baby, my special Callum, my greatest reward.

Photo by Gary Clarke

Love,

Mommy