2003 Journal Links

Dear Archie,

Today you are one. I just tucked you into bed and brushed your errant hair behind your ear. You looked at me, your eyes heavy with sleep, and smiled. “Goodnight, birthday boy,” I whispered. “See you in the morning when the sun comes up.” You grunted and rolled onto your stomach, pulling your knees up to your chest. You are tired and ready for sleep.

I paused at your doorway, as I often do, and watched you roll your head from side to side, side to side, in your crib. My sweet baby boy, you’re growing up. Today you called me “Mama” and I cheered for you as you clapped. “Yeah, Archie!” I praised. You laughed. We laughed together.

Some days I wonder how a year has passed since your birth. Other days, like today, it seems as if I have known you forever. Maybe I have, I suspect. Or maybe you came so close to the edge, maybe even crossed over, that maybe you know more than I ever will. Sometimes I think I see that in your eyes.

A year ago today your father and I visited you in the NICU and we marveled in your newness. We knew you had Down syndrome before you were born, and we knew your heart wasn’t whole, but we still couldn’t wait to meet you. When I held you for the first time after you were born, I cried, “Happy Birthday, Archie! Do you know how much we love you?” You turned your head toward me and wailed, scrunching your eyes up tight. A nurse took you then and for the next 41 days anytime I wanted to see you I had to visit you in the NICU.

Your father and I visited you every day. Your grandparents came, too, and your aunts and uncles. We brought candy for your nurses on Halloween and they dressed you as a pumpkin. We spent your first Thanksgiving with you in the NICU, too. Although I was very happy that you were my baby and loved you very much, I was very sad, too. Sad and scared because you were so sick and I couldn’t do anything to help you. “I just want to take my baby home,” I told anyone who would listen. In December the doctors sent you to Charleston where new doctors could fix your heart. Everyone in the NICU was sad to see you go, but pleased that you were going somewhere you could be helped.

Last weekend as I wrapped your birthday gifts I thought about your tumultuous beginning. You were much sicker than we expected you would be before you were born. There were moments, my precious child, that I wondered if you’d ever get to celebrate your first birthday. But I never stopped believing in you, or hoping that you would get better. Last weekend as I wrapped your birthday gifts I thought about all of your doctors and nurses, I thought about your surgeon. “Thank you, Dr. Bradley,” I said aloud. Your father, working in the other room, turned around and smiled at me.

As I stood in your doorway tonight I thought back over your day. Your father and I came to your room together this morning to bring you downstairs. You were singing in your crib when we leaned over you and wished you, “Happy Birthday!” I wore a funny birthday hat. You tried to take it off my head when I picked you up.

Your father tied balloons to our mailbox so everyone who drove by would know it was your birthday. Miss Kim, your E. I., made prints of your hands and feet today. I gave her a birthday cookie, a little gift from you. Beth and Kaitlyn walked across the street to bring you a gift and we gave them cookies, too. You received a lot of e-mails from friends, and Aunt Karen and Ellis called to wish you a happy day. Your grandparents came for dinner and cake and to open presents, too, and your Pop called to give you his best. You played with your new toys, splashed in your bathtub, and cried because your teething again. Little baby, you had a busy day.

You’ve come so far this year, Archie, and have accomplished so much. You are determined, and bright, and engaged. You enjoy entertaining everyone around you, and love most of all to socialize with your family. You seem a little older every day, and you inspire growth in those people who share your life, too. I never knew I could learn so much from an eighteen-pound-heavy-twenty-eight-inch-long person. You are my past, present and future all together in one tiny face. Even now, I believe in your ability to overcome the odds.

I hope you play on a sports team, learn to play an instrument, and enjoy reading books. I hope you have lots of acquaintances and a few good friends. I hope you fall in love. I hope you find fulfillment in your work, and enjoyment in your hobbies. I hope you have enough self-assurance to rise above the ridicule you’ll encounter. I hope my love gives you the confidence you’ll need to achieve the goals you’ll set for yourself.

Before you were born I used to pray that you would get a chance to grow up to be healthy, strong and happy. I had the same prayer when you were sick. Even now, I whisper the same wish over your resting body each night when I check on you one last time before I fall asleep. I’ll say the same prayer tonight, on your first birthday. And I’ll pause at your doorway again, before going back downstairs. I’ll look at your peaceful face and know where you’ve been and how far you’ve come, and as I turn toward the steps I’ll imagine a moment from your future, as I do every night, and I’ll smile. I may think of you riding your bike down the street, or I may think of you walking across the stage at your high school graduation. Whatever future moment I pick, though, I know that I’ll imagine you smiling, and that I’ll imagine myself smiling back at you, too.

I love you, happy boy.

Mommy