February 14, 2022
Our baby is 18 months today. She’s our last, and my intention from the moment we decided to try for a third has been to be present. It is so tempting to jump ahead to a future stage that promises fewer demands on my time, a little more freedom, a little less work. It may be true–though nothing’s guaranteed–that it will be easier when she’s sleep-trained, cup-and-silverware-trained, potty-trained, passed more milestones of independence. But what’s certain is she’s only just-born and clinging to me for dear life once. She’s only a tiny peanut cocooned against my body so very briefly, only collapsed into a milk-drunk puddle in my arms in the 3 AM stillness for a short season. Each stage of growing up flashes brightly, all-consuming, then fades, never to be ours again. When I find myself mentally skipping ahead, looking forward to a fantasy version of a future good part, I try to reign it in as soon as I realize it’s wandered. In the midst of all these ordinary hard parts of ushering an infant through childhood are so many shining, fleeting moments. If I’m mentally skipping ahead to the good parts, I’m missing them as they come. So 18 months in and she’s still my baby, even as she’s just started walking over the past two weeks, staggering like a drunk around the living room, as babies do, intermittently falling on her diaper cushioned bottom and looking only surprised.
We threw her a first birthday party yesterday, because she turned one on the coast where her blood family lives, but the opposite coast from her godparents, the friends who brought us meals when she was born, the people who babysit our kids for free because they love us, the chosen family we’ve stumbled into and sought to build. We celebrated with the family we were born into, but without the kaleidoscope of loved ones cramming our tiny DC backyard, it feels like something is missing. We had a massive shindig for our oldest when he turned one–really for me. That first year was so hard; it really felt like I deserved a trophy. The one year milestone proved significant in an unexpected way: one year was the dividing line between crib naps and cot naps at daycare, and suddenly his scattershot day sleep consolidated into one long afternoon nap, 2+ glorious hours of freedom, regular as clockwork. Turning one was an unexpected gateway to a daily period of freedom for the adults, and improved mood and self-regulation for the kids. With more sleep, everybody wins. For our middle, we hosted an intricate combination of blow-up pool/finger paint on butcher paper/make your own tea blend party. How on earth did I have all that creative energy? For our third, I kind of want to grab a box of cookies at Target and call it a day. But I want her to feel like even if we are more exhausted, losing steam, her first anniversary is just as much an occasion worthy of celebrating as the others.
And so, at the 18 month mark, in belated honor of turning one, we invite a bunch of people who love her to join us for a proper celebration and let our little baby be their Valentine. It starts snowing that morning and continues through the afternoon, pausing just before people came over. We light a bonfire, turn on our heat lamp, serve hot chocolate, with whiskey, for the adults. Multiple variations of carbs, most homemade. A bowl of strawberries, cheese. It’s no pool party with crafts, but she is well and truly the center of attention and I’ve got a video to prove it. Sweetheart, if you ever feel like the neglected youngest child, here’s a photo of your first birthday party to prove you wrong–look at all the love on our faces, focused wholeheartedly on you!
The next day I take her up to bed. After the work part–the changing, the jammies, the medicine, we just lay there, giggling. I think about my dad, how he only got thirty-three of my birthdays. Maybe half-birthday parties are a necessity afterall. I might only get a few opportunities to commemorate three of the best days of my life. The moments with her before bedtime, laying down and letting her flop her head on me, the cooing, the intimacy–it feels more precious for how short-lived it is. I get to be here, with you, right now. I get to feel your soft skin, see your face shine up at mine with expectation, let you collapse into me. I may not get an endless supply of your birthdays, but for what I have, I can be present.
