Dear Sadie

My sweet, sweet Sadie,

Today you are five months old. Five months! It doesn’t seem possible. There are days when I look at you and feel like you have always been with me. And there are other days when I hold you and think, “Stop, stop, stop.You are growing too fast. I need you to stay like this – in my lap, in my arms,with me -- forever.”

But for now, you are with me. Always with me. When I’m cleaning, when I’m puttering at the computer, when I’m working out in the morning  -- you are there; in the Ergo,in my lap, in the stroller. Your father is perhaps a bit afraid to be alone with you and “the toddler.” I don’t blame him. You haven’t been a very easy baby the few times I’ve managed to sneak out of the house. 

We drove back from a friend’s house the other day, and about ten minutes from home you decided you had reached your limit. You were hungry,over-stimulated, and uncomfortable in the car seat. Suddenly you were screaming. “Meet my Sadie,” your dad joked. I didn’t think you were capable of howling like that. 

And so, there we are, always together. For big moments and small ones, it’s usually just the two of us. But some of the happiest moments are when you are strapped in the stroller while I run or work out.

We finished our first race together – the Turkey Trot 10k on Thanksgiving – and there was nothing I was more thankful for than to be able to share that moment with my little girl. Just you and me for 6.2 miles. In brisk sunshine,running around Mount Trashmore, quiet but for the sound of thousands of feet pounding on the pavement. I leaned down when we had finished, sweaty and a little out of breath, and you had the biggest smile on your face. I have never felt prouder or happier after a race. Thank you for that.

You are too young to remember, but I made you a promise that morning. And that is this: I will push you through race after race, and I will bring you to my morning workouts, and I will drive you to soccer practice or ballet or cheerleading or whatever activity you want for year after year after year.

I will do it with gentle encouragement and patience on the mornings when you are tired, and with a proud grin for your recital, and with a trunk packed with Gatorade and oranges and clean socks for game day.

I will let you wear my marathon medals while you are marching around the house in my high heels. And I will share my McDonald's French fries with you when I’m celebrating the finish of a long race.

I will use you as my reason to get out of bed and go for a run on a cold morning. I will pay for as much sports equipment or lessons or cute workout gear as you need. I will stock our shelves with quinoa and Greek yogurt and fresh fruit and vegetables.

I will show you that healthy bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and that it requires great strength to be a mother. I will make sure that you get just as much as I do from our time at Stroller Strides.

In short, my darling, little Sadie, I will be the example you need to become a strong, confident, healthy woman.

And in return, one small favor: When I am older, and tired, and far, far from my PR days – will you wait for me at the Turkey Trot finish line,with that same sweet, proud smile on your face? Because even if it’s a 12:37/min. mile, I know that will make it my best race ever.

Love,

Mama

Dear Sadie

Well, I've started this letter a few times now and deleted that much and more, so I might as well just begin with what's on my mind:

Your Great Grandma Hazel passed away last week and you and I are still warm from all the hugs we shared in New York over the weekend. I am so very, very glad that Grandma Hazel had a chance to see you while she was able, and I won't ever forget how calm and peaceful you were in the room with her last month. An absolute angel. But that's not what I want to talk about right now.

Someday soon I will tell you all about the strong women in our family -- women who have raised families while building careers (before it was modern), who have sat next to their children to do homework at the dining room table because they knew how important it was to have a college education, who have scrimped and saved and put aside vacations and new clothes and fancy cars so that their children could have a bigger future, who have loved and lost and kept right on living. There will be time enough to tell you about them, but right now I want to tell you about the men.

Because the best example I know of love and devotion and selflessness is your Poppy Howard, and I want you to know that as much as we were grieving for our loss and celebrating Grandma Hazel's life this past weekend, we were also paying tribute to the way Poppy Howard cared for Grandma and his family -- especially the last 17 years.

When I was 11 years old, Grandma Hazel had a stroke. What I remember most about that day and the coming weeks was the back "seat" of our Ford Ranger pick-up truck. There were two little benches that folded out facing each other, and your Uncle Bill and I would squeeze ourselves back there and stare at each other and stare out the window and try to stare ourselves to sleep on the 40-minute drive to Gouverneur every weekend for what felt like forever.

I remember wearing my big, bulky winter jacket and how the drives would start out so, so cold and just as I'd figure out a way to warm myself by bending over at the waist and tightly hugging my legs while pulling them in at the ankles, I'd all of a sudden be sweaty and itchy and dyyyyyyying to stretch my legs.

I remember wishing we didn't have to drive so much, and sleeping soundly all the way back home.

I remember racing your uncle Bill and my cousin Lindsay down to the vending machines at the hospital again and again and the time that Bill got off on the wrong floor and we were running all over trying to find him. And it was so much fun I wished we could just play on the elevators all night and not have to go back to Grandma's hospital room at all.

I remember that I expected Grandma to be able to speak again. I remember hearing the adults talk about this and about recovery and therapy and the doctors and the nurses and the percentages.

And I remember her frustration. Perhaps that is the only vivid memory I have outside my childish ones that is any indication of the seriousness of the situation. I remember Grandma Hazel was so frustrated, she was so mad, she was so exhausted that she couldn't tell anyone anything -- and she had tears in her eyes. I remember walking out of the hospital room then, though I can't recall if I simply wandered or if there was a hand gently pushing me out.

But through this all, Poppy Howard was a rock. He would smile when Lindsay and I begged for vending machine change. He would laugh when Bill raced down the hospital hall to the elevators. He would hug us good-bye and when Grandma was flustered, Grandpa just kept calmly making guesses.

Sadie, right now I don't think too much about who you will be when you are an adult. I just know that you will be happy and you will be beautiful. But I want you to know, right now, before life even starts to make any suggestions of turns or curves -- I expect this from you: That if you choose to have a partner for life, you choose someone who will deserve you. A person who will stand by you through all the traditional marriage vows (like thick, thin, rich, poor, healthy, sick), and then some, and they will do so not because they are expected to, but because they want to be there.

Poppy Howard is that kind of person. For 17 years, he not only stood by Grandma Hazel; he carried her, he lifted her, he dressed her and he fed her. He translated her "wa wa was" and her sweeping hand gestures. He found the TV channel she wanted and he guessed and guessed and guessed until he figured out the birthday she wanted him to remember.

When she was able, he brought her out to weddings and to graduations. And when she wasn't able, he brought the party to the farm house. He held her hand and pushed her chair and when she finally made the move to the nursing home in 2008, he visited her every night at 7 p.m. Every night, Sadie. Every night.

Honey, you won't realize til you're much, much older (because I certainly didn't realize until I was older) how much he sacrificed because he loved her. And it will probably take you an even longer time to realize (I only just realized it this weekend) that none of it was a sacrifice -- because he loved her.

I am not a betting woman. I don't play the lottery and I don't like casinos. But I would put every cent I own on your father's devotion to me. I want you to know this, because I love (and I mean love) that when I go home, I will at some point or another walk into the kitchen for a sandwich and instead find my parents dancing, cheek to cheek. I will roll my eyes and groan, but inside I am smiling because it is one of the happiest moments I know.

I know you are only four months old today, and I don't want time to go any faster than it already is, but I can't wait for you to be old enough to run around the corner and find your daddy and I smooching by the stove, just like your Great Aunt Debbie used to catch Poppy Howard and Grandma Hazel. I hope with all my heart that when the time comes you find someone who will love you like your Daddy loves me. Like your Grandpa loves your Grandma. Like your Poppy Howard loved your Grandma Hazel.

Someone you can dance in the kitchen with forever and ever and ever.

Love,
Mama

Dear Sadie

My sweet baby girl,

Tomorrow we are making the trip to NY - your first to the North Country - where you will meet lots and lots and lots of your extended family.

My apologies in advance.

Actually, I think you will love your family just as much as they will adore you. You are so very lucky to be blessed with such a well-rounded, diverse group of people in your life. It wasn't until I was grown and had the experience to spend time with the families of my friends that I realized just how amazing it was to be raised in a group of 21 cousins and three crazy brothers. And it's not about the numbers, either. Whether you have five cousins or twenty, if yours are only half as awesome as the ones your mother has, you will be a little girl who never wants for a playmate on a family vacation or a funny story to share about "this one time." (And, honestly, your cousins already show all the signs of being just as awesome. I'm actually a little worried about how much "this one time" kind of trouble Sierra might be able to lead you all into...)

It's funny to think that not all families are like ours. A family that gets together at Christmas or a random Sunday to bust out the guitars or the tambourines or the ukuleles or the karaoke machines and sing and laugh and drink and eat and sing some more together. There isn't much to regret about your life, Sadie, but if there is one thing that will weigh heavily on me over the next few years it is that we don't live closer to your cousins and aunts and uncles and great aunts and uncles and, perhaps most importantly, your grandparents.

You have many years ahead to forge your own relationships and memories with these special people -- including your father's family who are just as amazing -- but I did want to share with you just a bit more about your grandparents. They all have so much to teach you, and without knowing it, so much of your personality will be shaped by them. If I could handpick those traits, I would, but know that no matter which quirks and talents you inherit, you are blessed to have four amazing people in your life who will love you and support you without any conditions.

So which traits would I choose? Well...

From your Grandpa Jeff, I hope you learn to laugh. And not just at the funny things in life, but even the sad things and the upsetting things. Your Grandpa Jeff is able to find the humor in just about any situation, and I hope you are not afraid to laugh louder or harder or longer than anyone else at the table. Just like him.

From your Grandma Jen, I hope you learn to run -- not just in the physical sense of the word, but also in the way you approach life. I hope you run towards new goals and set new personal bests for yourself every day. I hope you have the energy and the drive to wake up at 5 a.m. on a cold April morning and swim laps in an outdoor pool before taking a "quick" 6-mile run around the neighborhood so you can be to work by 8. And I hope you do it all while smiling. Just like her.

From your Grandpa David, I hope you learn to love learning. To read non-fiction books and passionately share the last paragraph with the person sitting in the armchair beside you -- stranger or not. I hope you approach every situation with an open and inquisitive mind and never worry that you don't know as much as the person next to you. Ask as many questions as you want and try as many new hobbies or interests or musical instruments as you will. Just like him.

Lastly, from your Grandma Karen, I hope you learn grace. This is so important, Sadie, and I pray that it is instilled somewhere in you without you ever having to try for it. I hope you learn to be compassionate and sympathetic without compromising your own integrity, and I hope you are able to approach every situation with the delicateness and empathy that it requires. I hope you write thank you notes even for the most simple of gifts, and I hope you mean every word you say or write. It will make it so much easier to get back up when you fall, and to repair any wrongs you may make. And, as a bonus, you will never have to *try* to make anyone like you. They will already love you for being so warm and honest and sincere. Just like her.

Happy three months, from your mother, and from all your family. We love you to the moon and back.

Love,
Mama

Dear Sadie

Dearest one,

There is something you should know about your mama (in the off chance it hasn't already occurred to you over the last two months): I am a procrastinator. I thought my incredible, awe-inspiring love for you would overcome any and all weaknesses in me, but alas, here we are -- only two months into this "open letter" writing business -- and already I am late.

But! But! I have an excuse. (And I always will.) I had started to write this long explanation-slash-apology letter about your name, but a conversation with your pediatrician changed my mind and I had to go about re-writing the entire thing. Actually, it wasn't even your pediatrician. He was a sub for the pediatrician I wanted you to see for your two month appointment.

He is an older gentleman with silver hair, probably in his 60s, with a kind face and wire rim glasses. I was pretty disappointed when they told me you'd be seeing him because Dr. Le-Jenkins was out for the day. Just last year, he was one of the handful of doctors who had just shrugged his shoulders when your older brother was going through all his tummy troubles as an infant. That shoulder shrug was still vivid in my memory, and I was prepared to be annoyed during your whole appointment, but instead he came bursting into the room with a huge smile, exclaiming, "Sadie Love! What a name! I just love that name!"

And he meant it. If it hadn't been for the way he had shrugged his shoulders during Carter's appointment, I would have thought he was just another one of those over-enthusiastic pediatricians who tries to butter up the anxious mothers -- but I know he's not. He's actually pretty dismissive of mothers as a whole. I've listened to him through the thin walls of the appointment rooms talk to other women, and I can hear his tired voice and imagine his shoulders shrugging as he listens to yet another mother ramble on about yet another infant who won't sleep more than two hours at a stretch.

But my, oh my. If he hadn't already loved your name, he would have loved you after the first five minutes of your appointment. There you were, smiling away in your pink diaper and wiggling all 12 pounds and seven ounces around on the table as he told me again how much he liked your name. And as you cooed and flirted, I realized you really are the perfect embodiment of a Sadie Love. So happy. So beautiful. But, but...

"Well, I actually worry about it a bit," I confessed to him.
"Why is that?"
"Well, I had always planned on naming her Sadie Love. It's a name that I sort of dreamed up while I was still in high school -- before I had met my husband."
"So?"
"Well, then I met my husband. And his last name is Lee..."
"So?"
"And so her name is Sadie Love Lee. You get it? 'Lovely.' It seems like I did it on purpose...like I was trying to be corny."
"But that's the best part."
"Oh, no. It's too much."
"No, no. It's perfect. It's why you met your husband."
"Huh?"
"Otherwise she would have just been Sadie Love Smith. That's not so perfect."

And he is right. Someday, I will take you to the basement of your grandparent's house and open up a big tupperware container of my high school mementos. And I will show you a few notebooks filled with high school biology and calculus, where your name is doodled at the bottom of list after list of names for my future children. Jackson Miles never happened, and neither did Benjamine Graeme. There are at least eight or nine different names for boys. But there is only one daughter.

I have known about you since I was 15 years old, Sadie. I have dreamed about you and talked to you. I have never doubted for a second that you would be Sadie Love.

Until my wedding day, when I realized your name would create that "lovely" wordplay. And then I worried and was anxious about how you might feel about it -- how people might talk about it, but I thought I would have several boys and time to think it over before you came.

Then you were born, and you were a girl, and my mind was spinning. I told the nurses all about the name I had held on to for over ten years and asked them what they thought about it. If it would be "too much" considering your last name.

And while I was hemming and hawing about it and asking the nurses if perhaps you'd be a better "Matilda" or "Nora," your father was texting everyone he knew:

"She's here. Sadie Love Lee. 9 lbs and 1 oz."

Dr. Rathke is right. And your father knew it when he ignored my fretting and started telling everyone all about you: Sadie Love Lee. It is not too much. It is not "too bad" that our last name is Lee. It is romantic, it is poetic. It is perfect. And so are you.

Love,
Mama

Conversations

Him: I have a question for you. What are you constantly wiping on your butt?
Her: What kind of a riddle is this?
Him: No, really. What are you always wiping on your butt?
Her: I don't know...toilet paper? Who taught you this one, a five year old?
Him: I'm being serious. Go look in the mirror. What is that handprint from?!
Her: Oh my gosh... It's the diaper cream. The diaper cream! I always wipe my hands on my pants. How long has this been going on?!
Him: I dunno...going on a year and a half now, I guess.

*long pause*

Him: What's the matter?
Her: I'm just thinking about all those trips to Target... All. Those. Trips. To. Target.




The Midwife: So, you're thinking about Mirena. Are you done having kids?
Her: Oh no. Just a little pause.
The Midwife: For how long?
Her: Just until my 30th birthday. I really want to be able to enjoy a few drinks and wear my skinny jeans at the party.
The Midwife: The party? Is it coming up soon?
Her: Kind of...in about two years and 9 days.
The Midwife: Not that you're counting...
Her: No. Not counting down at all.
The Midwife: I think you're 30th birthday is getting more planning consideration than either of the kids.
Her: Perhaps just a tad.

The Facebook status updates that didn't make the cut this week...

Carter has invented a specific language for talking to his Little People farm animals. My question is: When has he had time to study Bill Cosby scat language? And how the heck did he get his hands on those old Jell-O commercials? And who let him watch the infamous Brad-Pitt-as-gypsy scene from "Snatch???"

First world problem of the Day: I'm always rewinding too far past the part of the movie I didn't hear properly.

I had the opportunity to take a shower BY MYSELF yesterday. No toddler at my feet. No baby snoozing in a bouncer outside the shower door. Needless to say, I would have been offered a walk-on spot with the California Raisins by the time I finally emerged. Jesse considered filing a Missing Persons Report. Sadie started following a duck around asking, "Are you my mother?" Yes, it was *that* long.

One child household = Trying to avoid burning yourself while gulping an entire cup of coffee in the shower.
Two child household = Trying to avoid slicing your toddler open while shaving in the shower.

One child household = Life is dominated by routine of feed, change, tummy time, spend 45 minutes trying to get baby to sleep for 20.
Two child household = Life is dominated by routine feed, change, and spending 45 minutes trying to get baby to sleep for 20 while yelling, "Don't put that in your mouth!" to your toddler over and over again.

One child household = Nap when baby naps.
Two child household = Nap while vacuuming.

And now, pictures of my kids looking cute this week:

Dear Sadie

I'm not sure how I should begin this -- my very first public letterto you. From the moment I reached down and pulled you up onto my chest, I havehad an overwhelming urge to blurt out every mistake I've ever made and everylesson I've ever learned and every hope I have for you in one great, big,terrifying run-on sentence. It’s obvious now that the most challenging aspectof being your mother will be giving you the space to make those mistakes andlearn those lessons and build those hopes on your own. Your grandmother has a talentfor giving people such space, but unfortunately for you, I am the carbon copyof your grandfather and we take the opposite approach in relationships --always hovering over the shoulder, critiquing and butting in, and knowing what's best.

I'm not sure why, but I don't feel the same urge to immerse your brother in my mistakes and lessons and hopes. Actually, I am sure why, butI'm embarrassed to admit I have such patronizingly simple ideas on gender. The truth of the matter is there is something that absolutelypetrifies me about having a daughter: That you will be just like me. The idea also kind of excites me. Being a woman is like that. 

So I don't know how I will restrain myself from trying to makeoverand simultaneously re-live my life through you over the next 18 years, butwhat I do know is this: You are a beautifuland happy person. That much has become apparent in your first month on thisearth. You smile more than any other newborn I have known, and you already havea talent for making us laugh with funny faces and noises. I am absolutelyhead-over-heels in love with you.

I once read a blog by a mother who described her first child asher heart and her second child as her soul. At the time, I thought it was kindof depressing, if only because I have always imagined having more than twochildren, and after the heart and soul -- what's left?  

But now I understand. Your brother is my heart. He always will be.He has taught me so much about love and patience and understanding andnurturing. As an infant, he was so high-maintenance. So very, veryhigh-maintenance. He still is, only now we call him "challenging." But because he is my heart -- the very beating, pulsing,fleshy muscle of my body -- it's never troubled me or annoyed me. The connectionbetween us is physical and uncomplicated. It is steady and alive in a verytangible sense. 


But you, my dearest, are my soul. I am so grateful for the manysmall moments you and I had alone in the hospital, while your father was busytackling my "to do" list and your grandparents were carting yourbrother around town. Just the two of us, alone in the quiet. In the brief seconds when our eyes would connect or ourfingers touch, there was so much exchanged. I feel greedy in my need to holdyou; I hardly ever pass you off to your father. There is something like anethereal bond between us. I spent the whole of my pregnancy expecting you to bea boy, and was so utterly shocked to hold you -- a girl! -- in my arms. Asthoroughly surprising as that moment was, I felt whole. Complete. The otherhalf of me, returned. 

And despite how passionate and intense all of that seems, it'sreally much more subdued. It's an easy, flowy kind of connection. And I promiseI won't smother you or expect anything of you other than to be yourself.Whoever that may turn out to be, I know she is perfect and beautiful and happy.And that's all that matters.  

But because I can't entirely restrain myself, and because I hopeto have a running theme for these monthly letters, here are three pieces ofadvice from the anthology I have planned for you:

• Grow your hair long while you're young. As silly and vain as it might seem, I really think every girl should know what it's like to have her hair touch the middle of her back. It seems easiest for the under-7 set, who don’t have to worry about shampooing and brushing and maintaining all that dead skin pouring out the top of their heads on their own. Also, there was a very sweet moment a few days before you were born when your father confessed that he was worried you might be a girl because he had a dream he was braiding hair. And it was not going well. That hilarious scene can't happen if you have a bowl cut, no matter how cute I might have made that look in 1989.
• Cross your legs when you wear a dress, or sit with your legs out straight when you're on the floor. Self-explanatory, really, but let's just say there are a number of family pictures where my smile is outshined by the teddy bears dancing around on my underwear. 
• Wear a tutu even if you can't dance. I hope you do dance, and maybe even take lessons, but lack of formal ballet education never stopped me. And I sure as hell don't think it should stop you. 

Love,

Mama