My dear Sprong,
You are one today!
I am simply amazed that the wrinkly little alien baby who could hardly breathe and had to be rushed into the neonatal intensive care for the first three hours of his life has now become a smiley little chatterbox who loves people, balls, buses and cars (sometimes in that order).
I want you to know that you are one amazing dude. Everyday, my heart does many twirls and spins watching you doing your thing, going about being yourself. You are all sunshiny goodness watching the world unfurl, gleeful at the wonderful adventures awaiting you at every corner (including messing with the remote control, light switches, drawers, sliding doors...yes, we're baby proofing the house).
As you chew into the delights of the world (literally), I feel so privileged to be part of you, to introduce you to some of the miracles and magic that is in store. Some mornings, when I get a hearty 'gaa' and that floppy puppy dog face burrows clumsily into mine, I melt into many saccharine highs.
The stored memory is bursting in its seams. The first time I heard you laugh, a light gurgle floating like an airy bubble, a sweet lurch fluttered in my heart and remains lodged there, imprinted forever. Your toothy grin, framed by that shock of hair, and those twinkling eyes, sometimes brimming with obstinate tears, are fleeting images that light up many a boring afternoon office meetings.
You've given your papa and me new directions and perspectives. Our views about life and living now totally revolves around you, the centre of our universe. Our priorities have changed and we are the better for it I think. We want to give more and do more, not just for you but in our little way, to the world at large. We realize that we are thinking like this because we want the best for you. You've also made us examine our actions more, the implications of what we do and the reactions as a result.
There were hard days, days when I thought I couldn't go on and felt like an absolute failure. The colic that hit us hard, followed by gastrointestinal reflux had you spitting out every feed and cause me to be a tensed, mechanical mom. Then the eczema that sprouted all over, angry, suppurating spots that had me sitting at various paediatricians office, unsure of all that steroids that they were prescribing to my wee baby. Looking back at those times, I feel that they made us both stronger and more resilient.
You and me, we are made of strong, hardy stuff, aye.
Thanks to you, my faith and belief in God and the goodness in the universe has also been amplified this past year. Your blooming after that period of health problems and how everything else has fallen into place since- my job which offers some level of flexibility to be with you, grandpa and grandma who help out whenever they can and of course, at the end of the day, we both have Papa who is always there, no matter what.
Your magic is of the ethereal kind, one that wraps my heart with showers of wonder and joy. The suppleness of this magic endears you to your daily world audience consisting of your grandparents, the postman, the old newspaper man and the retired couple next door.
Did I tell you that you are a dancer? When Barney and Baby Bop come on TV to sing, you do your little jig along with them. You are a whirl of mobility now that you've found your feet. Yes, your drunken sailor walk fills me with such pride. Mobility does mean that the idea of sitting still is a bit of a bore, one that wee little babies did. So, reading, which you enjoyed so much is not on top of your agenda at the moment. For now, there is a world to be walked into.
Some nights, when you are fast asleep, your papa and I trace your form again and again, almost in disbelief that you are real. This is what angels must look like, I whisper to him. Somewhere, somehow, we must have done some good to have been blessed with you.
You are one today!
I am simply amazed that the wrinkly little alien baby who could hardly breathe and had to be rushed into the neonatal intensive care for the first three hours of his life has now become a smiley little chatterbox who loves people, balls, buses and cars (sometimes in that order).
I want you to know that you are one amazing dude. Everyday, my heart does many twirls and spins watching you doing your thing, going about being yourself. You are all sunshiny goodness watching the world unfurl, gleeful at the wonderful adventures awaiting you at every corner (including messing with the remote control, light switches, drawers, sliding doors...yes, we're baby proofing the house).
As you chew into the delights of the world (literally), I feel so privileged to be part of you, to introduce you to some of the miracles and magic that is in store. Some mornings, when I get a hearty 'gaa' and that floppy puppy dog face burrows clumsily into mine, I melt into many saccharine highs.
The stored memory is bursting in its seams. The first time I heard you laugh, a light gurgle floating like an airy bubble, a sweet lurch fluttered in my heart and remains lodged there, imprinted forever. Your toothy grin, framed by that shock of hair, and those twinkling eyes, sometimes brimming with obstinate tears, are fleeting images that light up many a boring afternoon office meetings.
You've given your papa and me new directions and perspectives. Our views about life and living now totally revolves around you, the centre of our universe. Our priorities have changed and we are the better for it I think. We want to give more and do more, not just for you but in our little way, to the world at large. We realize that we are thinking like this because we want the best for you. You've also made us examine our actions more, the implications of what we do and the reactions as a result.
There were hard days, days when I thought I couldn't go on and felt like an absolute failure. The colic that hit us hard, followed by gastrointestinal reflux had you spitting out every feed and cause me to be a tensed, mechanical mom. Then the eczema that sprouted all over, angry, suppurating spots that had me sitting at various paediatricians office, unsure of all that steroids that they were prescribing to my wee baby. Looking back at those times, I feel that they made us both stronger and more resilient.
You and me, we are made of strong, hardy stuff, aye.
Thanks to you, my faith and belief in God and the goodness in the universe has also been amplified this past year. Your blooming after that period of health problems and how everything else has fallen into place since- my job which offers some level of flexibility to be with you, grandpa and grandma who help out whenever they can and of course, at the end of the day, we both have Papa who is always there, no matter what.
Your magic is of the ethereal kind, one that wraps my heart with showers of wonder and joy. The suppleness of this magic endears you to your daily world audience consisting of your grandparents, the postman, the old newspaper man and the retired couple next door.
Did I tell you that you are a dancer? When Barney and Baby Bop come on TV to sing, you do your little jig along with them. You are a whirl of mobility now that you've found your feet. Yes, your drunken sailor walk fills me with such pride. Mobility does mean that the idea of sitting still is a bit of a bore, one that wee little babies did. So, reading, which you enjoyed so much is not on top of your agenda at the moment. For now, there is a world to be walked into.
Some nights, when you are fast asleep, your papa and I trace your form again and again, almost in disbelief that you are real. This is what angels must look like, I whisper to him. Somewhere, somehow, we must have done some good to have been blessed with you.
Love,
Mommy
