letters to my roo

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.