Dear Isaiah,

I couldn’t write your year letter.  I just couldn’t.

There is/was something about “a year old” that I could just not muster the bravery to sit down and admit to myself that you are one year old.

December 20, 2010.  Your first birthday.  You lived it just like any other day.  You lived it like you do everyday: joyously.

I watched you crawl and climb over things and everything.  I watched you nonchalantly take your hand away from the kitchen shelf that you were using to stabilize, for a moment, stand ever so briefly on your own before landing on your cute little bottom.

One year.

Your Dad and I had a staff meeting at work and you came with us.  No longer the silent child, you squirmed, laughed, and wiggled for almost 2 hours around the room, making everyone smile and sigh with memories of their own child. That night we went to a holiday party where everyone oohed and aahhed over your handsome face, your toothy grin, and your bright brown eyes.  To me, this is how all babies are: calm, comfortable, stranger friendly, healthy, and full of adorable babble.

Apparently, this is not the prescription for all children.  I don’t know how blessed I am.

To me you have the soul of a poet – an observing and thoughtful mind, a deeply feeling and intuitive person.  You have your father’s spirit – so easy going without any kind of trepidation of life.  Your excitement is all me – squealing, seeking company, finding fun everywhere, and seamlessly entertained by everyday surroundings.  How this is all going to mesh together is a mystery to me and your father, but we are confidant that however you grow, you will be a special child with grace and blessings.

As your mother, I had my own self doubts.  I have intense doubts about my ability to be a good parent.  I’m not good at hiding these questions and feelings.  The couch has witnessed numerous hours of quiet contemplation of what is best for you, what is best for me that behooves your safety and development.  I have so many moments of uncertainty that I feel I live now more in question than at any other time in my life.  And the only times I am certain are when you face me with that big smile and laugh, completely content in my and your father’s company.  It is in those brief moments I remember that you have all you need so as long as your father and I are here, peaceful and loving, joking and playing with each other and you.

My doubts never leave, despite my prayers that they relinquish their powerful hold.  I hope that someday, far off in the future when you have your own children or when you find yourself responsible for someone so vulnerable, that you can find a memory of me loving you with fear, despite fear.  I hope that somewhere in your soul is recorded that during your first year of life that you were loved beyond all things, beyond all desires, and above all matters in my life.  I hope that the small occurrences of my being short, snippy, or tired are smoothed over by the avalanche of nights we spent quietly talking and closely praying, those moments your head slowly dipped into rest on my shoulder and I teared up with gratitude.  I hope, somewhere, those times are encoded in your being.

Because what I will remember is having my life shaved nearly bare and finding you in the center of it.  My life morphed into something unnamed. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what it is and what happened, but I have a feeling I’m going to let it be unnamed for quite some time and just live it out.  It’s a year later and I still don’t know what happened when you came into my life.  All I know is that the force of goodness has never left since you arrived.

Happy 1st Birthday, Isaiah.

Happy Life and Spirit and Peace and Wonder to you for all the years of your life.

Love You Always,

Mom