Today you are eight months old.

I started a draft of this letter to you about a week ago. Just a week ago. It started off with how awesome it's been. Awesome. Totally, totally awesome. Just a week ago. It was like we'd totally hit our groove.

I could continue on that way, and no one would know the difference, except for your papá. He would know I'm a big, fat liar. Today is not awesome. You are cranky and tired. You are uncomfortable. You are...

Teething? Holy holy, I hope so. I really hope this is teething. Because if it's not teething? WE ARE SCREWED.

I realized last night as I was trying to put you to bed that I don't know you very well yet. I've known you eight months now and for most of that time you've been a pretty happy baby.

I don't yet know the deepest, darkest of your lows. The brightest, tallest of your highs. I don't have much to go on. It is frustrating for both of us.

As I began to redraft this letter in my head I started thinking about how grateful I am for how fantastic this last month as been.

But I'm not actually grateful. That's not that word. I'm not blessed. Or thankful. Or whatever.


The word I have come to use is honored. I am honored you chose me for your mama. For us as your family. That the universe spun, the stars collided, and you came down.


I am honored to be a part of your life. That you are here to live with us and grow up with us. That we get to witness you. All that you are. All that you will reveal and all that you will become.

So I'm not going to cross out what I'd already written, because it's all still true. But what I'd already written is not going to be your eighth letter because, today, it is not important.

I don't doubt you won't go back to being the baby you were a week ago. I don't doubt it one bit.

But today we are just going to sit inside of today. Be with today.

All those other things and steps and milestones and signs and toys and ways of being you've been doing for the last month can wait.

Today, the only thing you need is me. You need my arms, my breast, my skin, my voice. You need to be held and soothed and nursed and rocked and bounced.

My body, my blood, my baby.

&, I, you.

Happy Eighth Monthday.