Dear Isaiah,

I know I missed your 13th month birthday and I sit here not really sure which is more unthinkable: that I missed it or that you’re 13 months old.

You are growing by leaps and bounds.  Last week, you climbed up the stairs by yourself, looking for me.  I was in the bathroom, your Dad in the kitchen when we both heard very loud handslapping on the hardwood flooring.  Sure enough, there you were, crawling up and never looking back.

And your appetite is reflecting your constant movement.  You demolish bread like it’s nothing and stuff pasta in your mouth like fuel for a hungry machine.  Last week you started sipping out of my cup and drinking powdered G2 Gatorade.  Your eyes remain open as you drink, the opening of the glass cup nearly putting a soft indent in your skin as you stuff your face into the cup to drink.  Your father and I just laughed.

You’re almost walking!  You cruise pretty quickly along the couches, and anything sturdy and walk with toddler toys with wheels.  It’s so strange, still, to see you standing on your own, legs a little less wobbly, a little less cautious everyday.  The house is wrecked every 3 hours by your travels and need to pull everything out of their place.

Your Da Da Da DA! is hilarious to me and emotional for your Pops to hear.  We know you are just weeks away from walking and your talking to yourself proves that words will soon be on the heel of your independent mobility.  But we’re in no rush.  This weekend, your grandparents came in while your Dad and I went out for the first time in many months.  We feasted at the Saffron Patch, an Indian cuisine restaurant, and then front row of the Cleveland Orchestra at Severance Hall, my favorite place in Cleveland.  We enjoyed ourselves and relaxed, breathing you in from afar for a change.

Today is the first day you are not with your father and I during the day and I have already cried and it’s not even 10am yet.  Watching your Dad pack you up had me more nervous than I anticipated.  Flat on the bed, I listened to the car back itself out of the drive, the snow crunching beneath the tires and then the buzz of the accelerator as the car hit the dry road.  My eyeballs never moved from the ceiling.  A quiet house.  It both thrilled me and devastated me all at once.

I showered and took my time, realizing that I could.  I ate breakfast without side glances at the high chair and piecing off bread for your tray.  My neck bears a necklace this morning and I stared at it a long time, realizing it had been so long that I wore jewelry without chubby little hands clamoring for it.  There were no stains on my sleeves or pants from your messy hand prints or applesauce dots on my face when you purse your lips together and blow during breakfast.  I missed you.

My office hadn’t seen me this early in a long time and my coworkers were sympathetic to my transition, asking how I was dealing.  Of course I cried.  And my small cold didn’t make it any better.  I thought of all the little things you’ll be doing and accomplishing without me and think, “This is good for Isaiah.  This is good for all of us.”  And while I know it’s true in my heart, it doesn’t really wipe the sadness from the windows of my heart, wishing I could be there just to watch you interact with the world in the trusting and innocent way that you do.

You are always with me.

Love,

Mom