One Year

One year ago today, at 4:56 a.m. a babe was born. We had prayed, and laughed and cried in anticipation of your arrival for 9 months, and there you were in our arms. A tiny, 6 pound bundle. Our little boy. That day changed our lives. 

As you have grown our hearts have grown right alongside you. Every milestone, every giggle, every tear, our hearts swell. Although exhausted, Dad and I spent that first night in the hospital wide awake, in awe, in fear, in joy. We didn't want to miss a thing. We wanted to protect you. We wanted you to feel safe, comfortable, loved in your new home. 

Since that first night we have spent many more sleepless nights; holding you, rocking you, singing to you. Still in awe, still full of joy, still terrified. You see, this parenting thing, it's hard. It's scary. So scary. And it pulls on your heartstrings. It makes you a rock and a puddle, sometimes all at once. In your year on this Earth you have made us feel every possible emotion. We've been tried and tested and blessed in more ways than we could have imagined, often wondering how we could feel more _________ (fill in the blank), and then we do. 

Louis, this year, the world has looked different. Because, when you become a parent, you start seeing things in a different light. They say your life will change, but they don't tell you that you'll hear of parents losing their child and tear up right in the middle of the doctor's waiting room. They don't tell you that you'll see a kid jumping in puddles, and catch yourself smiling at the thought of a mud-filled laundry room one day. Or that when you hear a baby crying at a restraurant you'll want to write the parents an "I understand" note. They don't tell you that you'll get a babysitter and talk the whole date-night about your baby, or spend an hour trying to soothe an overly-tired child, get him to bed, then long to wake him just to get a few extra snuggles. They never tell you that the world's ugliness will look a whole-lot uglier because you'll picture those wrongs being done to your very own child. Or that keyboards, and sun rays, tissue paper and spatulas will become favorite items because they'll bubble up that beloved giggling sound. They tell you so much about how wonderful it is, and how fast it goes and how your life will never be the same, but they don't tell you about being at your wits end because you haven't slept, and you haven't showered and you haven't eaten, and you just got puked on, and feeling like you want to scream and cry and call it quits, but loving that little human so much that not a moment of it matters as you rock late into the night. 

Now you're one. We've spent a whole year getting to know you, and your amazing personality. Making mistakes. Crying, laughing, losing sleep, and clinging onto those cuddles. One year doing this parenting gig, and I'm certain that we'll spend the rest of our lives saying... They never tell you. But maybe that's because they can't tell you. Maybe words just don't suffice. 

Happy Birthday, sweet boy. I can't wait to see all the amazing, beautiful, wonderful ways you will open our eyes to this world and change our lives. We love you, but how much we could never tell you.