Finley Files: One Year Old

Dear Finley,

My little moonbeam, in utero circa June 2009

Last night, I had such a difficult time putting you to bed. I lagged. I stalled. I rocked you in my arms, retold you the story of where I was one year ago, reconnected with those hopes I had whilst in labor. 

Fin, fresh from the oven, 8 pounds 11 ounces of juiciness

I described to you what I was thinking, laying there for hours in the hospital. I described to you the way you looked when I first saw you, all those tiny movements, your glow.

Fin, hours old--hosed off and warmed up

I explained to you that switch I had, holding you for the first time--that moment when I first became a mother.

One of a thousand moments we've shared

I blabbed and blabbed, and even though you didn't really understand me, you listened. 

Feliz Navidad--Fin one month and one moustache old

Then you stretched out your arms above you, shared a powerful glance, and fluttered your eyelashes into slumber. Good night, my eleven month-old.

That's right, baby--sneak up on your dreams!

I have enjoyed this year immensely. I have reveled in every moment, clutched you close to me each day. The time flew by so fast I get whiplash trying to slow it down.

Two month-old Finley and her gummy bear smile

 Time is the ultimate tragedy. Life is cruel in that we cannot pause moments. That babies must grow, learn to speak and walk. But humans must learn to speak so they know their own voice, know to speak back. They must learn to walk so they can run away. 

Three months old, beaming and beautiful

What a blessing it has been to hitchhike on your journey this year, riding on the tailgate--what a view.

Mom's little birdie

 The last month when you were still a-cooking in my belly, I wanted to name you either Finley or Fable. Finley conjured images of an Irish warrior princess, someone strong, brave, and noble. Fable had a definition laid out for you to fall into--"a story with a moral."

Five months old

I decided to swaddle you in strength, named you Finley, and now I now you have carried both names. You are my morning warrior, and throughout the day I see you fighting furiously your restraints. You do not like to be caged. You do not like to be contained. You let me teach you, gently, for a moment, before you burst forth and do your own will.

Beach bum at six months old

My darling, time is the one constraint you cannot defeat, but we are lucky to have memories. They are our only defense against time. 

Seven month-old laughing Buddha.

I will be visiting this year over and over for the rest of my life. 

The summer of heaven--eight months old

At night, sweet Finley, your content face tells the story of your day--and I read in it the morals.

Nine months old

I promise to never contain you, but to watch you soar, even if I have to see you take a few nosedives.

That hair of yours! Ten months old

My muse, my warrior, my light.

Fly high, eleven month-old!

 Finley Mae, happy twelve months.

I heart being your mommy, little fishie.

 And congratulations on your life so far. I am loving the person you are becoming.

I love you like Saturn loves his rings.

From, 

Mama.