October 4-5, 2010
Dear Raya,
Today we begin the countdown of the last week of your first year. Exactly seven days from now, we will celebrate your arrival in the world.
As I think back on your birth day, the thing I recall most vividly is putting your brother to sleep around 7 pm, and taking an hour-long walk around the neighborhood, clutching your dad's hand, stopping occasionally to take deep breaths, and timing contractions which increasingly made me feel like I was stuck at the center of an avalanche, gathering speed down a steep and rocky cliff. We knew you were coming, but we did not realize how close you were, until we got to the hospital and the nurses checked me. It was exactly one hour and twenty minutes between getting to the front desk of L & D and holding your perfect little body in our arms. The fact that at 8 pm you were still inside me--a mere abstraction but a source of mind-numbing pain--and at 9.20 pm you were flailing your limbs in your first contact with light and air will never cease to awe me. While your brother's birth was no less amazing, the medical interventions it required to jump-start labor and the fear which followed as doctors and nurses checked on him to make sure that he was well, momentarily clouded the exhilaration which washed over us from the second you were born.
While your dad and I walked that night, we joked one last time about your gender. We loved not knowing whether you were a boy or a girl, and we had made a not-so-secret pact months before that, since he believed you were a girl, he was to choose a girl's name, and since I was convinced that you were a boy, I would pick a boy's name (we each approved the other's choice, of course). So, as we paused in our walk every few minutes to time contractions, he addressed you softly several times as "Raya," while I admonished him--sometimes with annoyance--that he was speaking to "Emil." Those little exchanges are some of my fondest memories of the hour before your birth.
I wish I could say, like others, that the moment you came out and the nurse announced, "It's a girl...," was a moment of divine revelation. As I've written before, though, it was not. The overwhelming feeling I had was one of relief--that you were out, and you were healthy--and the gender seemed immaterial for at least an hour after you emerged. It was not until we had been wheeled to the mother-and-baby room, and I had had time to hold you and look at you, that the realization that I had been wrong all these months--that your brother would be big brother to a little sister, not a little brother, and we would be raising a boy and a girl, not two boys--finally started to sink. It is still sinking in today.
I am not afraid to tell you that I was, and continue to be, scared witless by the idea of having a girl. I worry about the responsibility of raising a woman who has the conviction to love and the self-confidence to be loved; the strength to nurture her passions and the ability to pursue her interests with mind and soul; the instinct to care for friends and the courage to open herself up to others. It is not as if I don't hope for those exact same things with Sava. But somehow the responsibility with a son feels less daunting (more shared with the father?) than the prospect of building that fragile bridge which is the life-long connection between a mother and a daughter.
*****
October 7
One of the great blessings of your birth, besides your sheer presence, has been the opportunity to watch Sava grow into the beautiful, caring, thoughtful brother that we had hoped he might be. This parenting gig has taught us never to have expectations, but of course it is hard not to hope, and your brother has exceeded our every hope. Almost twelve months into it, he has yet to say anything other than sweet, loving words to you. He lights up in your presence, and is always looking for ways to attract your attention. When we are too focused on you, for whatever reason, he sometimes becomes sad, and sometimes starts acting like a clown to redirect our focus; but he is never aggressive or mean or jealous in the way that siblings can often be. If you would allow him (which you don't), he would smother you in kisses and hugs multiple times a day. He surrenders his toys to you with an alacrity that is almost eerie (I can count on two hands the number of times we have had to beg him to "share"), and he is almost never upset when you mess up his stuff (which you do a lot). He looks in wonder at the little sisters--a bit older than you--of several of his little friends, and he often remarks on how he can't wait until you, too, walk and talk. If I have any hopes for the next few years, it is that you, too, grow to appreciate your brother for the sensitive, loving, and devoted soul he is.
At the moment, you are enamored of Sava almost as much as he is of you, but you take for granted his generosity and his mild manners. You love to mimic his every gesture, and you especially love being silly when he is silly. The two of you can thrust each other into a paroxysm of giggles that often dissipates only if we separate you. You love to romp in his bed, especially first thing in the morning, and you love to grab whatever toy is in his hand. (Some teaching of play manners will have to happen in the next year.)
So, if you read this when you grow up, I would like you to know that you have been blessed with an exceptional brother, who has been exceptional from the very start. He likes to say (almost daily, and without prompting from us), "When Raya and I grow up we will take care of each other," or "Raya and I are best friends," and I hope that with time you will learn to honor and reciprocate his love. He is a gift to you, as much as you are a gift to him. And you both are a gift to us.
*****
October 8
Tomorrow we will celebrate your birthday with friends, and today I found myself racked with guilt over the fact that, amidst all the planning, I had not given any thought to what you would be wearing at your birthday party. We have bought you almost no clothes this past year, thanks to the wondrous generosity of friends, and I have felt joy and deep pleasure in dressing you up in clothes that have a history of having belonged to people for whom we care. Eve exclaimed in delight yesterday when she saw a sweatshirt on our couch that Elaine had worn constantly only a few months ago, and that now is your and our favorite.
So...I spent much of today vacillating between two silly but overpowering emotions: wanting to reaffirm who we are by dressing you for your birthday, again, as all year, in "well-loved" clothes that have been gifted to us by dear friends; and thinking that, years from now, when we look at your birthday pictures, we would feel guilty for not having bought you at least one special outfit for your birthday. In the end, as with so many parenting decisions, irrational guilt won over rational thought, and instead of reading to Sava after nursing you to sleep, I hopped in the car and headed to the Stanford mall. It's a place we love to hate, and one which we visit only in dire straits.
I wish I could say that, once there, the conflicting emotions resolved themselves, but in fact I spent twenty excruciating minutes, rifling through hilarious baby fashion, trying to pick something that would express not so much your personality as ours: since yours is still in flux, we get (for a brief while) to fantasize that we can influence who you will become. And what we imagine you will become is a girl who dislikes bright pink and lacy frills, and one who loves trains as much as she enjoys dolls. (Alright, and one who maybe, just maybe, loves ballet--not the garish, commercialized stuff, but the real art.)
Dream on, Mom.
On the way back, I had an overwhelming sense of what can only be described as apprehension and uncertainty: apprehension about babyhood passing away, and uncertainty about what to expect as you and Sava continue to expand into real people.
I think a lot about what we owe you as parents. I wonder daily what I would put down if someone asked me to make a list of the three most important things I'd like to teach my kids. Tonight my answers to what I would like you to know by the time you enter adulthood sound like this: I would like you to know 1) how to love yourselves enough that you love others more; 2) how to find people worthy of your love, and work hard in order to earn theirs; 3) how to figure out what work gives you a sense of meaning, and pursue it regardless of the cost.
It's a tall order, I know, but I am allowed to dream. I don't care whether you end up going to Harvard or the University of Montana. I don't care whether you decide to like pink or grey. I don't care if you prefer books, sports, music or, gulp, fashion. But I do care that you grow up into good people. I care that you love well and work very hard.
*****
October 9
This first year of yours has been marked by a paradox: the absolute best and the absolute hardest experience for me since the first day you were born has been nursing you. Like your brother, you took to nursing within minutes of being born, and you had no issues latching or swallowing. And like him, you nursed pretty much non-stop for the first three months, and you gained phenomenally, doubling your heft by the fourth month. While to outsiders, including doctors who should know better, that seemed fantastic, we knew well from the first time doing this that you were comfort-feeding because of reflux; and we knew that, at some point, when feeding became less a matter of reflex and more a behavioral choice, the constant feeding would turn to its exact opposite--reluctance and refusal--because you would figure out that eating increased your discomfort instead of soothing it.
We were right, of course. And from the fourth month on, nursing became a full-time job, whose ups and downs continue to this day. Despite aggressive treatment with antacids, carrying you upright for hours after feeding, sleeping on an incline, etcetera, you nurse well when you feel well, and you nurse badly when you feel uncomfortable. Sometimes we spend hours glued together in hopes that, slowly, you will get what you need and I will not have to pump in order to compensate for your not eating; those are the times that leave me drained, exhausted, and discouraged. And sometimes you nurse beautifully, and I think to myself that, if that is how nursing felt all the time, I would still be nursing you when you are going off to college.
Despite the hard days, of which we have had our fair share lately, nursing has created a bond that, even on the eve of your turning a year old, I can't quite imagine breaking. I wouldn't know where to begin to wean you, and you--who refuse to drink anything other than water from a straw cup--give no signs of being done either (but if you don't take more than you have done in the past week, you might find that the tap has dried, so to speak). Unlike what the books advise, I put you to sleep every day--twice for nap, and then at night--by nursing, and whether you feel well or not, and whether you nurse well or not, those minutes of holding you as you drop off to sleep--along with the moments which follow, when I leave you asleep and sneak out to read to Sava--are invariably the best moments of my day.
I love how, even when you seem wide awake as we begin our evening rituals, you begin to doze off after about ten minutes of nursing, your eyes fluttering faster and faster, trying to stave off what look like slow-motion blinks, until at some point you give up and fall asleep. Just lately, whenever I stroke your face as you drift off to the land of Nod, you also like to hold my hand and press it to your cheek. That right there is the image I want to carry for the rest of my life as a memory of your first year.
*****
October 11
I had planned to write about the hemangioma, but I am out of time, and what more can be said anyway? It's been your special badge of courage, and it will always remind us of the tenacity you showed during your first year. You are more beautiful than we ever could have imagined.
You are also zany, funny, and hilarious. At one year old (today!), you love to laugh with your brother and you have a wildly expressive face, just like Sava did and still does to this day. You giggle after you sneeze, because we make a big deal of saying "apchih!!! bless you!", and you especially love to stuff things in your mouth.
Just yesterday you said "bye bye" while waving at me (as I was feeding you), and you have learned in the past couple of weeks how to cradle stuffed animals and dolls, while saying in a voice that imitates ours, "awww...awww..." Seriously, I get cannibalistic while watching you; I understand why my parents always used to say, "I want to eat you up."
And you had a helluva nice birthday party on Saturday. We invited our closest friends, and thanks to Heidi, who rocked the day by providing art activities for the older children, we all got a chance to chat and laugh, while you cruised around chewing on plastic bottles. (Heidi, we couldn't have done this without you. Thank you so much. You are amazing.)
"Hey, she is feeling me!" were Levi's exact words at this moment
And then they were friends...
And yes, that fake tutu with tights and matching onesie is the outfit it took me an excruciatingly long time to pick for you at GAP. It is the one girly outfit we have bought you all year, and the whole time you wore it, I wanted to squeeze your little ruffled butt.
Sava looking in delighted disbelief as I tell him to blow the candle
Happy Birthday, Love. We are so happy to have you in our lives.
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