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Monthly Archives: August 2012

Dear Corwin,

Your first two teeth are coming out. It’s been… interesting. Basically, teething is hell. You’re in pain, and I wish so much I could make it better. You’ve been whining for a week now, and I think I may be going insane. Other than that, all is well, and as always, I love you.

Lately, you’ve taken to grabbing my eyeglasses off my face. I used to mind and tell you not to do that, because I particularly hate it when people do this without my permission, until I realized why you do it. You do it because you want to press your face against mine. It melts my heart and makes me want to weep every time you do this, that you love me this much, and that I ever stopped you from doing it.

When you were little, you had atopic dermatitis. You had flare-ups on your face, especially your cheeks. Your doctor asked me if we kissed you on the face, and that stopped me for a second. Of course we do. Every day. Every hour. Every chance I get. I couldn’t even understand why she was asking me that question. In my head, I was thinking “OF COURSE we kiss your face.” Apparently, we weren’t supposed to. So I learned to be okay with just kissing your temples and your hair and your hands and arms and legs and feet. We kiss on the lips, too, which is just too cute. But your cheeks, your eyes, your forehead, and your chin that you got from me, I couldn’t kiss those.

Your atopic dermatitis troubles significantly lessened after Japan. (I think it was the really cold temperature that sorted it out, but I can’t be sure.) And I could kiss your cheeks and eyes and forehead again, thankfully, but I still found myself kissing your hair more. You were itching all over your face before and you were so tiny, too little to be suffering that much. I think a small part of me was still holding back because I can’t stand the thought of you having another flare-up, especially one I caused.

When you rub your face against mine now, I feel my heart breaking in more ways than one. I hate that I haven’t done this as much as I wanted to and should have. You’re growing up so fast and I’ve missed out on precious time that I cannot get back. Time has never meant this much to me ‘till you came along. The smile on your face when you remove my glasses makes me incredibly happy and breaks my heart all at the same time. I did say you would teach me some things. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out.

I make it a point to take them off myself now. Tonight, I pressed my face against your dad’s and called your name. You were crawling your way to the edge of the bed to dangle off it (don’t get me started on that one), but you turned and headed straight for us when you saw us that way. Then you pressed your face against ours and stayed there for a few minutes. We were a pile of giggles.

I told you the three of us, we belong together. You smiled with your eyes closed like you already knew.


Came across this today (via Polaroids and Thoughts)Moleskine Postal Notebooks! I’m trying not to squee with glee. I’m such a sucker for pretty paper products. (Photos grabbed from the Moleskine store.)

I write better on a laptop than longhand, but for a couple or so Dear Corwin letters, I think that’d be nice. And suddenly, I want pen pals again. Someone write me something beautiful.

Dear Corwin,

You’re turning 9 months tomorrow. You clap your hands with glee when you’re happy, and pull yourself up to stand on your own. You kiss my lips when I ask you to “kiss mommy.” You army crawl like nobody’s business, and love carrots like a bunny. Your smile is still gummy, and you still bounce. A lot. And you make exploding noises while you knock over your stacking cups. Not really sure where you got that from. We don’t let you watch tv, so I’m guessing this comes built in with boys.

You insist on being read to at least twice daily, around 4-5 books each time. You pick the book you want to read from two choices we always offer you. Sometimes you cry when the story ends, until we give you two more books to choose from for your next story. You make noises while we’re reading, as if you’re telling the story, too, and interacting with the characters. You have very specific reactions to certain pages (e.g. you kiss the cat in Rocket Town, and exhale loudly when it’s bedtime in 10 Minutes ‘Till Bedtime), and it’s always funny and heartwarming, and you make me so proud, my love.

We’ve been breastfeeding since you were born (despite some initial latching issues because of your stay in the NICU), but you stopped drinking directly from me on your 7th month. I’ve tried everything to get you to come back, but you simply don’t want to anymore, so I’m going to pump exclusively ’till your first birthday, at least. The benefits of breastmilk far outweigh the hassle of pumping. Be sure to thank me when you’re older. I’ll take a trip for two to Maldives, if it’s still around by the time you can afford it. But really, I’ll take a handmade card.

You’re a very secure baby with an independent streak, and while I wasn’t quite ready to let go of breastfeeding just yet, I can’t help but feel a little proud. We’re seeing how our kind of parenting is working for you, for us, and I am happy to see we’re not screwing you up just yet. (Haha.) You decided to sleep in your own bed when you were 5 months old. You’re still in our room, but it was a big change from sleeping between us. I wasn’t ready to let go yet, but you were, and somehow that worked amazingly well for all of us. I have missed snuggling with your father.

I loved breastfeeding you and I know the bond we share now is partly because of it, but I also believe in us finding our own rhythm every time. Because we do. It never ceases to amaze me that we do.

You’re usually asleep by 7:30pm, but you weren’t that sleepy tonight. I put you in bed beside me for a few minutes, and we talked. I sang to you. You put your hand on my face. I kissed it over and over again. And you looked at me with so much love, I could almost feel my heart explode. I have never known happiness like this before. When you started squiggling again, I put you back in your crib. I lay on our bed and I could hear you whispering things to the ceiling. 10 minutes later, you fell asleep. We find a rhythm that works.

Earlier, we took down your mobile and left only the music box. You could reach it already, and it was time. Somehow, parenting has me letting go of things before I’m ready. Or holding on to things longer than I should. But you will teach me as much as I will teach you. And we will always, always find our rhythm. That’s what we do.