Dear Zoe,

Dear Zoe (a letter about your 1^st birthday party),

I doubt you’ll have the precious chocolate dipped strawberries or rice krispy treats, dear one. I so wanted you to have them. I can’t figure out why, except that pretty things just make me happy.  I hear the voices of people (that I’ve practically made up in my head) and see the look of my (very well intending mother) when I tell her my plans. “She won’t remember this party.” “You stress yourself out all the time.”  “No one will even remember ANYTHING – quit stressin’ over the details.”  Well, it’s not for them.  It’s for me. I like it (most of the time).  It’s like a ridiculous when-I-feel-like-it-hobby that I don’t have time for.  I spent days trying to perfect your little (pointless-why don’t I just cut you a piece of the big cake-) smash cake. It still isn’t even close to perfect.  I tried dipping the rice krispies.  The chocolate hates me.  Meanwhile, you’re here. You’re screaming like a panther, and I’m sick with the world’s worst sounding cough. Between the two of us, we’re a mess.  You’re “going through a stage” (or maybe you’re just rotten) where you want no part of being on the floor by yourself.  I cook with you in my arms. I clean with you in my arms.  I pick up your toys with you in my arms.  I fold the laundry with you in my arms. I go to the bathroom...you got it...with you in my arms.  Hm. Maybe I've convinced you I'll always hold you. :)  Oh, the thoughts we think.

But this time, because I wanted the stinkin’ cute, sweet treats, I just let you scream.  I tell myself it won’t kill you (and it won’t).  But then your sweet baby voice that I turn into words in my head starts confusing me.  This is your first birthday party and YOU WANT PRETTY PINK DIPPED STRAWBERRIES!  Please say you do, because they are so adorable.  Surely that’s what those millions of tears you are crying are saying.

And then, no.  Just no.  You don’t want anyTHING.  You simply want the person in front of you.  No more, no less.  Just me.  Some moments, it’s tiring.  I know I need to choose me (which means, I need to paint my awful toenails, wash my gross hair, go out to eat with your daddy without trying to teach you to sit in a highchair, catch up with a friend who is probably sick of stories about you, you, and more you because that’s all I know to talk about now, ....).  But for me, there is no me without you anymore.  It’s impossible to “just think about me.”  And I am so completely ok with that.  So most moments, I choose you.  And right now, instead of choosing Pinterest-y cuteness (because otherwise I would be sacrificing my time with you and our afternoon snuggles), I so choose you.  I am sure one day I’ll have plenty of time to make some pretty “things” when you no longer try to climb up my legs and hang on for dear life.  You’ll choose other things, other people, other places.  So for this moment, I choose you.  I choose time. I choose hugs and soft curls, and dry eyelashes on my shoulder. 

Happy Birthday (in 2 days), my little love.