letters to my roo

You have just had your first Christmas.

In our family we do two Christmases: Christmas Eve with Nanny and Poppy and the rest of your mummy’s family, and then we go to Brisbane for Christmas Day with your Nonna and Nonno and the rest of your daddy’s family.

Last night, we went to Nanny’s house. You had so much fun with the paper and the presents, and you knew your two cousins were racing around and there was a party so as much as I tried, you didn’t sleep. You wanted to be where the action was. And can I blame you? You had the best time and I loved watching you get excited about Christmas.

Today, we drove to Brisbane. And I am so so proud of you for handling that 5 hour round trip like an absolute pro! You had a couple of big naps with your new Riff Raff, you arrived all happy at your Nonna’s, and you met so many new faces and had a ball. It was stinking hot so you were crabby by the end, but once you got in the car and settled in, you were happy as Larry.

You, my baby boy, are the best gift I could have gotten this year. Thank you for all the joy and the light you bring to our lives. I can’t imagine life without you. Thank you for choosing me to be your mama.

Merry Christmas, my Roo, and I can’t wait to see what the year ahead brings.

You sleep next to me at night, and my time for writing about you has vanished. So here we are, my sunshine, you are three and a half months, dozing next to me now, waiting for your dad to come home.

You laugh now. Laughs that light up your whole face, with your little gummy grin taking over your eyes and crinkling your cheeks. I spend my day trying to work out what will make you laugh — it fuels me.

You can roll. Aptly, you’re also pretty stoked to roll on the river with Tina Turner. But you roll onto your belly with ease.

You’ve grown out of clothes and into new ones, grown out of nappies and I’m wondering if it’s weird to keep one from each size so I can remember just how small you were. I’ve packed up some of your clothes to give away. Others, I’ve held onto, reminders of you, my perfect boy, who made me a mama.

My baby. I am so, so, SO incredibly blessed to be your mama. You make me laugh. You make me smile. You make me look at the world with new eyes. I am tired, I am anxious, and some days I am so frustrated and lonely, but then you take my finger and stroke it on your face to fall asleep and it all fades away. Because you are you. And I adore you, so very much, this clever, kind, sweet, funny little baby who changed my life in 5 short hours.

I never finished telling you how you arrived. I should. I need to.

But right now I’m going to lie beside you, and smile at you, and remember those belly laughs you gave me as I ate your toe beans and begged to pass my compliments onto the chef. Remember when you used to do that to me? Now I do it for you.

I love you, my baby, with all of my soul.

How on earth did that happen so fast?

I remember how long it felt to reach 12 weeks of growing you. Every week felt like an age.

Now, today, here I am, looking at your little face, wondering how you got so big, so quickly.

You love to sit in your pram and watch me do things. You’re my little sticky beak. Nanny raced around her house with you yesterday in the pram and spun you around. You loved it.

You have these little shy smiles now, where you duck your head into your daddy’s shoulder whenever you’re seeing people and you’ve just woken up.

You are getting so so good at grabbing things. You roll onto your side, and today you even rolled onto your belly and pushed up on your arms.

Your cradle cap is slowly drifting away.

You love the bath, and today you loved how it felt when you kicked and splashed the water in your little seat. You love baby massages. You love kissy foot, curled to sit like a C in my lap, aiming your little feet at my mouth with a smile.

You’re curled up against me right now, noisily breathing your way through the first sleep of the night. Every time I look at you, I feel so overwhelmed with love, with this sense of being the most blessed woman in the world. How could I be anything but blessed, when I get to be YOUR mum?

I love you, my sweetest, most handsome, darling honey boy. You are my world.

Sitting awake with you at 2am with you asleep on my chest is prime time for online shopping. I’d say don’t tell your father, but he’s well and truly aware.

Today, AusPost decided that the parcels shouldn’t be left at the front door (standard) but needed to be left at the post office. We were out, you and I, having adult conversation. I was, in any case; you were beaming happily at everyone who was commenting on how stinking cute you are (true) and how big you are (also true). But that meant the parcels were left at the post office.

So we drove home from our outing, Mercedes Sosa playing until you decided you didn’t fully hate the car seat. We drove up the driveway where I laid in the front seat while you napped in the back seat. And then I decided we should probably go to the post office because your dad wouldn’t finish work til 5 and I wanted my parcels.

This is my explanation to you. This is why you woke up from your nap, dazed and confused, in a post office. This is why we are now sitting in a car park near said post office while you tearfully feed, and while I nervously watch two men outside who are each threatening to fight each other.

Maybe online shopping isn’t my best hobby at 2am.

When you first arrived in the world, after those first sleepy, beautiful cuddles, a midwife rolled me onto my sides and placed you next to me for your very first feed. Ten weeks later, here we are — me coaxing you to sleep in our bed, the big bed, because your bed is not your favourite place at the moment.

Shall I tell you about being born? Your experience was different to mine, I know.

(more…)

Today can be summed up with one word: poonami.

You were thrilled with yourself, and that’s all that matters.

Watching your dad rock you back to sleep at 4am is one of the most beautiful things to me. You’re wearing your blue wave jammies and are entirely too awake, I think, but maybe it’s another party night.

Don’t cry, little one, don’t fight that sleep. A yawn, another, a fist to your mouth for soothing. Your dad’s yawning. I have one eye closed. At this rate we’ll hear your sleep songs and fall asleep before you.

Dormite, niñito.

Your hands, fingers curling in and out, pointing at things or your little stability pinkie gently resting on me.

The seashell whorl of your ear, the imprint of it staining my skin pink.

Your little brioche bun arms. Rolls on rolls, the sweetest thing.

The little noises you make. I don’t know yet what you’re telling me, but I promise I’ll find out.

Your eyes, so blue right now, that close so gently when the milk hits just just right.

Your tiny button nose. I think you got my nose. It won’t look like a button forever.

How long your lashes are, and that there’s one that juts out straight amongst the curls.

The way your toes curl, too. You wiggle those toes and arch your feet, kick your legs when you’re trying to get the gas bubbles out of your tummy. I did ask you to let me get them out of you mid feed, but you said no, you could do it yourself. Independence already.

I can see your cheekiness already. It shines through those eyes, the ones that know I’m feeding you in the hopes you’ll fall asleep with a full belly and a happy smile. I think, from the way you’re looking at me, that I’m going to be wrong.

You’re going through a phase of hating the car seat. If I sing Skiddamarink to you for five minutes straight, along with shushing noises on the radio, you’ll fall asleep. But sometimes… honey, you howl. And right now you’ve gone from howling at the car seat (no mums next to you when it’s the two of us driving solo!) to howling at your dad as he tries to put you to sleep. I’m going to see if the magic feeding to sleep trick is worth a try.

See you in a moment, Roo.

We spent the morning swaying, patting, rocking, singing. You sucked your hand. I stumbled over Spanish words, because you’ve told me that Mercedes Sosa is the singer that calms you, and I’m determined to learn every word — not only to sing it to you, but to explain it to you one day.

Maybe that will be Poppy’s job.

Outside, your dad mowed the lawn, a soft hum up and down, past the window to your room, the one you don’t sleep in yet. He passed the window to our room, the one we three share, the one where you and I are curled up together. Your body is relaxed, asleep, one hand splayed on my belly. You’re smiling in your sleep. When I look down at you, I see the linea trailing down my belly, a reminder of when you and I were always, always together.

You stir slightly. One eye threatens to open, and your hand presses into the softness of my belly, another reminder of you growing in me. And that reassurance that I’m still there sends you back to a deep sleep, one with a shuddering peacefulness. It still amazes me that me being near to you brings you calm. That for you, I am everything. I don’t feel it, I mostly feel overwhelmed, like I’m not sure how to raise you, but you look at me like I do. And I am so, so proud to be your mother. When I think of it, of that insane blessing, it makes me cry. I had a coworker once who told me that when I had children, I would realise nothing else matters. She was right.

I’ve handed you to your daddy now. I’m going to go get us food and a rocking chair for late nights.