To my daughter on her second birthday.

Dec. 8, 2017

To my sweet Analisa,

It was exactly two years ago when we first met. The doctors lifted you up, told me you were a girl and set you on my chest. I fed you. I rubbed that weird white stuff -- vernix? -- into your delicate skin. I inhaled your sweet scent, and then exhaled, relieved that the past 24 hours could start becoming a distant memory. Labor wasn't as horrible as everyone made it sound, but it was HARD. (But ever so worth it).

We locked eyes and you were mine in an instant. It was like I knew you already, and maybe I did. I knew your kicks, and what your hiccups felt like from the inside, and I knew without even thinking twice that you were my baby, and that would never change.

It WILL never change.

You have a new baby brother or sister on the way, my sweet girl, but know this: You will always be my first baby. You taught me how to be a mom.

Even in the simplest of places around the house, I'm taken back to our earliest memories together -- even if we weren't in this house, per se. But some days I'll just be tidying up and I'll pass by the brown couch. I transformed into a mom on that couch, usually sitting on the far left side, wedged up against those cozy pillows, with your tiny body in my arms.

We must have spent WEEKS on that couch, maybe even months, if you added all the time together: nursing, trying to nurse more successfully, sometimes losing a few tears over it all, eventually bottle-feeding, or just sharing a quiet moment between the two of us. Like me, holding you or rocking you. Or singing "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac for the 40th time that day. (Are you sick of that song yet? You can tell me now).  ;)

We shared that couch with Daddy, too, SO often in the early days. Just the three of us, getting snuggly. And we filled the space with books and blankets and your giggles, and probably some crumbs from various snacks, as well. (We'll have to get rid of that couch sooner rather than later, I think).

We've tackled these past two years together, my Ana. You learned how to be a baby -- that "fourth trimester" is tough, right? -- and I learned how to be your mama. Some days, you'd cry. One day, I cried with you, and whispered that I didn't know how to do it, either. I felt a little lost at times, although I've always tried to stay confident, no matter what. It's easy to take all of the advice, and none of the advice, all at the same time.

Still, I remember once, sitting in my grandma's empty-feeling condo, missing James, who was adjusting to the new job and long newsroom hours, wondering if I was doing OK with the whole "new mom" gig. We had uprooted our lives for this move to Michigan, I had left my career (and probably still had some post-partum hormones flowing through), and it was just ... such a transitional time for everyone.

But I feel like you've always understood, on some weird, intrinsic level. Maybe that sounds crazy. But even when you were upset and I'd ask you to dance it off with me, I feel like you got the hang of it -- like, that's just who your weirdo mom was. You went with it. You are so loving and easygoing.

We tackled each day together. Some were easier than others, but most included naps -- and naps are the best, aren't they? Those make everything better.

I felt so good when I woke up one day and realized how much you seemed to trust me. And James, of course. You really are our girl.

I hope you know you can always trust Daddy and me. Even though you'll never REALLY remember the early days, I hope they brought you comfort and security.

We've had the absolute happiest days: Your first giggle. Your first belly laugh. First steps. This summer, your first scraped knees (although, we also started the game "who's gonna kiss baby's boo-boo?", which added a silver lining). Days at the park, or strolling the mall ... or just sharing a snack with you in the kitchen, making silly faces at each other. I can't say I've loved EVERY moment -- after all, you went through a phase where you'd scream when the yogurt ran out -- but I've loved about 99% of our time. You are the best baby. You're growing into the best toddler. And I can't wait to see what kind of girl you become.

I wouldn't change a thing.

And from here, I want you to continue growing up with everything we've tried to provide early on: mainly, comfort and security. You're so smiley and kind to people. I don't doubt that that'll continue. I hope you find friends who make you the happiest version of yourself. Keep bringing me books. (One day, you can read to me!) Keep learning. Keep counting. Never stop dive-bombing into our arms, or sneaking up on me with an "o-prize!" (surprise), or striking up boisterous songs with mama at the grocery store.

One day maybe you'll go to college -- or you won't. One day maybe you'll marry a wonderful man or woman -- or you won't. There will never be pressure from us. People live a million different ways, and I trust that you're going to be incredible no matter what. I trust you to live your life in the way you see fit.

And if you wake up one morning and come to terms with the fact that you've picked or done something that no longer brings you joy, I hope you have the strength to rewrite your story. It's never too late, my baby. I am with you. We are with you.

I am so proud to know you, so grateful to spend so much time with you, and SO lucky to be the one you call "mama." It's by far my best title yet.

I'm in awe of the tiny person you're becoming. You'll always be my baby first, my friend second, and I hope you know that nothing you could do would EVER drive me away. You and me and daddy: We embody unconditional love to the fullest.

Keep being you. (We'll work on limiting the fruit snacks, over time). I hope you know how much joy you've brought to our lives.

I love you, bear -- a bushel and a peck.

Love,

Your mama