Dear Binja:

Your mother is not even creative enough to come up with her own way of tracking your growth; she stole this from Dooce.  May she be half as funny as the originator of the idea.

There are not even words to describe how much I hated pregnancy, Tony, but in all honesty, I don’t remember any of it.  I also pushed you out for two-and-a-half hours, which the doctor had told me was unheard of a week prior, and I don’t remember that pain, either.  I remember seeing the doctor’s needle and thread bob and weave below my belly as he sewed up where you tore me, but I don’t remember the pain of that. 

I remember holding this tiny, wet towel and thinking, “Holy shit, what have I done?”

You have been such a huge blessing in such a short time that your father and I often feel unworthy of your presence.  Everyone in the hospital fell in love with you so quickly, we were thankful for the magical bracelet system that would prevent some nurse from walking home with you.  Because they would have.  They LOVED you.

I remember your father’s face when the nurses were first bathing you; he was looking back and forth to the nurses, waiting for them to speak.  Finally, after you were washed and on my chest, he quietly told me there was a problem with your foot.  They decided it wasn’t broken, he said, but no definite conclusion could be reached.  He was very pale when he told me this.  I saw it when we were brought to the recovery room, and he was right.  It was VERY disconcerting.  Both your father and I looked at eachother and decided: this foot is part of what makes you perfect.  It’s your lucky foot.

The first two weeks we were home were quite miserable for me, through no fault of your own.  My attempt to breastfeed you were thwarted by nature, and as a result, you and I were both incredibly frustrated and exhausted.  I cried a lot, you cried a lot, and I wondered how we were going to make it through.  Your father was blissfully unaware and was just so excited you were with us.  He adored you, and you would prove to return that affection.

Then we were shown the miracle of formulas, and all was right with the world. 

Your big brother was unsure of how much he was allowed to love you right off the bat, but he soon jumped in with both feet.  He can’t wait for you to get big enough for you two to get in trouble.  Tell me this is not trouble incarnate:

You don’t seem like the same child we brought home a month ago, but in the best way possible.  You are content to lay in your bassinet and look around, often talking to sunbeams or dust bunnies or something else that we don’t find fascinating in our jaded ways.  You will flail your limbs around wildly, all the while cooing, and we will watch you do this.  For hours.  We are officially lame; you are officially loved.

There is a whole world waiting to meet you.  In the meantime, we will be keeping you to ourselves.  Welcome to the world.. you have made it a better place by joining us.