Four years ago, I wrote a letter to our first unborn child, Jonas, sitting in our living room late at night, heavily pregnant and swelling with anticipation, anxiety, fear, excitement, trepidation, awe and all those other mystifying emotions one has as they await the birth of a child, especially that first one.
A bit less than two years later, I sat again -- late at night and late in another pregnancy -- and dug up the letter I wrote to that unborn Jonas, adding it to what I wanted to tell my then-toddler Jonas about himself on the cusp of the birth of his baby brother. I wanted to try and capture how I felt about the baby who had grown before my eyes into that precocious toddler.
And here I am, a bit more than two years after that night, again filled with excitement and anticipation, hoping again to steal some moment in time and tack it here, where it will always serve as a touchstone for me, capturing these small creatures in their present states so I can return here fully again and again and again.
But it doesn't work that way. The morning after Silas was born, when Jonas came to the hospital to meet him, I felt absolutely stunned by how big he looked as he strode into the room. He was 22 months old and though always tall for his age, he appeared giant after I'd spent the past 12 hours gazing at the comparably tiny Silas.
Not only did Jonas look enormous, but he seemed so grown up and I saw a little boy before me, rather than the little baby I'd had not quite two years before. It was as though that silver thread that had connected me to that tiny infant had been broken by the experience of birthing and holding the new baby I had in my arms. And while I was amazed by Jonas' maturity and genuine delight in meeting his little brother, I felt the wrenching realization that the silver thread was forever broken.
It got easier. The year's journey between Jonas' second and third birthdays proved he was no longer a baby many times over. He was squirmy. He was stubborn. He didn't want to cuddle with mommy. He was frustrating and frustrated. He would have been all of those things with or without younger sibling, and in a way, the small space created that day in the hospital helped brace me for the larger space Jonas would create -- naturally, as he should, despite how painful it was -- over the next year.
And then, the journey from three to four, which has been a delight comparatively. And while I miss the newness of that tiny baby Jonas and how miraculous every moment seemed, watching him truly turn from a baby/toddler into a little boy has been its own profound miracle. We have discussions now. He asks thoughtful, sometimes stunning questions. His memory astounds, his imagination is complex and consuming, he is intense and sensitive and kind. He has charted the journey of his baby sister in a way he simply couldn't have with Silas, as he was too young then to comprehend the process. And while I can tell his is still unsure of how all of this new baby stuff will unfold, he is participating in the ladder of days leading to her arrival and is excited and anxious, just like his parents.
Silas, like Jonas when he became big brother, is a bit too young to grasp what is transpiring. He knows her name and that the grainy, sepia pictures on mommy's phone are of this creature. He knows that mommy's ever-growing tummy has something to do with this creature as well. He cradles and nurses and caresses his baby doll, though interestingly he calls it Baby Silas while he does. I would not expect him to grasp this essentially imaginary concept, yet I know he will be a fine big brother when the day arrives, because he has had an exceptional role model.
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Jonas, I couldn't have asked for a better big brother to Silas. You were enthusiastic from the start, from those early weeks, when you climbed into his crib and jumped up and down on your knees, tossing him in the air to his absolute delight and my absolute terror.
You were kind and patient, especially for being so very young when he was born. You love him fiercely and thoroughly, and he knows it. All the while, you have weathered the storm of your parents, as the three of us stumble along this oldest-child path together, each day uncharted territory, each phase full of wonder and uncertainty. We are always crossing a milestone, with another on the horizon, but you seem to sense that your father and I are learning as you do. I marvel at your mind as we travel each day together.
Silas, you have been a terrific baby. Smiling at three weeks -- how many mothers get that? And indeed, you've had a ready smile and giggle every day since.
You are both keenly observant and totally wild. Your grandmother describes you as the type of person who long ago would have made a career out of being shot from a cannon, and I think she may be right. You are so unlike me in so many ways (though that explosive temper -- that I recognize), and added to your cannonball approach to life, I never know what is coming next, which makes the journey an adventure. And while you are the extrovert of our little family, at least for now, you have been so genuinely attached to me that I have felt your love deeply and thoroughly for these past 26 months, each and every day. Every mother needs a child like you.
Nida, we await you. As with each impending birth, I find myself full of anticipation to see you, meet you, hold you and get to know you, while nervous about the process that will get us there. I hoped for the opportunity to mother boys and girls, and your addition to our family will provide me just that. I know I am fortunate to have that wish granted, and I linger in that knowledge.
There are things that give me pause. As with many mothers of little girls, I worry you will eclipse me in the Pink and Frills departments, and I will not know what to do or how to do it. I worry we will lock horns. I worry you will be Daddy's Girl and I will not feel as close to you as I did with the boys. I worry you will be a teenager like I was, and my own history will not come to my rescue in knowing what to do to guide you.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. For each of those worries, there are dozens of hopes and ideas and plans and wishes. I think you will change the dynamic of our family for the better, and I am eager to see how. I think having a sister will enrich Jonas' and Silas' lives, as I feel that having older brothers will enrich yours. I hope you'll bake cookies with me at Christmas. I hope you'll let me read Anne of Green Gables to you, at least once. I hope I am able to mother you well, no matter what kind of girl you end up being. I can't wait to meet you.
Welcome.
