This is Julianna’s birthday letter. It was written in fits and starts, bits and pieces in the weeks leading up to her birthday, and in the days immediately afterwards. It is long, even by my standards. I tried to remember every last possible detail I could about who she is right this moment, and every time I thought I was finished I would remember just one more thing I wanted to include – and so the letter grew (it grew and it grew and it grew). I don’t expect anyone to read the entire thing (at least not in one sitting) but I thought I should post it just the same. It is all rather unconnected stream-of-consiousness writing. Lots of run-on sentences (my speciality) and rather choppy transitions (or no transitions at all). I tried to let my words come from me without as much care as usual – so I could capture her in the most true and unfiltered way I could. This might not read like great writing – but it felt great to write it.
——
Dear Julianna

In the typical fashion of a mama who combines a bad habit of procrastination with a history marked by good intentions and little follow through, I’m about six months behind on writing updates on your life and development. This will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well (as you should by the time you are old enough to read this letter).

This particular letter began as a seven month update, did some time as eight, nine and ten month updates, got fleshed out into a nice little letter just as you turned ten months, and was ignored entirely when you passed the eleven month mark.

Now you approach your first birthday and I’ve written nothing about you in over half your life. I had lofty plans of writing about you at least once a month, but here we are playing six months of catch up. I beg your forgiveness dear one. You’ll likely hear this tired spiel over and over again – best you get used to it now. Since this has to cover so much time, it will be a long one – but I hope that one day you’ll look back on this letter and feel blessed that I took the time to write it (and generously forget about all the months that I put it off till it was too late).

12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days since you burst forth from my body and changed everything I thought I knew. Where has the time gone?

I’m not sure what it is about your babyhood (or babyhood in general) that makes me speak in cliché’s – but I cannot seem to stop. You are growing now at breakneck speed, changing from baby to toddler before my eyes. There have been a hundred million moments where I want to stop time and breathe you deep into my soul so that I can remember every single thing about right now. But yet, watching you grow and change and learn is far too exciting – and so forward we must go.

Your spirit, so quiet and intense, runs deep my wee one. It is clear - to me at least - that you are possessed with an uncommon wisdom. This is not your first time here. You have lived for aeons and this universe has been your friend for lifetimes upon lifetimes already, of this I am sure. You were born already knowing the Earth, aware of Her truths, sharing Her knowledge and keeping Her secrets.

There are people in your life - Mani is one, your baby friend Sula is another –you were born already knowing. Marybeth says that you and Sula came from the same star – and I think she might be right. Mani says she can see her beloved late Guru in your eyes, and I also believe this to be true. Some people might dismiss this idea – but as your mother I can only say that you have connections that were formed long before your birth as my daughter.

Would I be placing too much pressure on you if I tell you I feel you will do great things in your life? I do not know if they will be great on a grand scale, changing the lives of many, or great on an intimate scale – subtly changing things for the better in a way that only a few blessed people ever notice. I do not know how, or what or when – but my instincts (which you have played a great role in teaching me to trust) tell me that you have a purpose on this earth greater than any I could ever comprehend or predict. You are my gift to the world. You are the world’s gift to me. Everyone wins.

You have the deepest, most soulful brown eyes; they sparkle with your irrepressible spirit. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen eyes that capture so much light and life, and I could gaze into them for hours upon hours. You have a way of looking at people that makes me think you see more than most. I don’t think I could ever hide anything from you – you know me by heart.

You’ve got olive skin, so dark that strangers comment on your tan, even when you don’t have one. Right now - after weeks in the Nova Scotia sun and despite my applications of sunscreen – you are even darker than normal. I call you my little Nutbrown Baby, after the bunnies in ‘Guess How Much I Love You’.

Until quite recently your hair stuck straight up on your head in pale brown-almost-blonde spikes, refusing to be tamed for more than a moment. I loved every last fluffy, nose tickling strand of it. Your hair has a mind of its own, so much so that someone at the grocery store once compared you to a porcupine – although I preferred to refer to you as my little hedgehog. Your Great Grammie C says you look ‘like a dandelion gone to seed’. I am a little sad now that it has grown long enough that it is starting to lie flat and behave (although perhaps it is just the maritime humidity and it will return to life when we return to the desert). I fight the temptation to gel it up again – your funky ‘do fit your personality so well.

Your lips…oh your lips. Perfect rosebud lips – inherited from your Daddy’s family - so full and sensuous and pink. Those lips are going to make many a man (maybe some women) swoon, they are the sort of lips that inspire poetry and declarations of undying love. You’re going to have one hell of a pout when you get just a little bit older. I predict you’ll find many that will willingly move mountains to turn that pout into a smile.

You’ve got big, strong, peasant hands - the hands of a worker. I look at your hands and can almost imagine all that you will accomplish with them. They won’t be afraid to get dirty, to perform physical labour, to work hard. Your hands will serve you well.

You’ve got adorably chubby feet with very high arches (so hard to find shoes that fit), and you love it when I pretend to eat them, love it even more when I pretend to smell them and proclaim them the stinkiest feet I’ve ever smelled (I’m lying, that distinction definitely belongs to your sister).

Your Daddy still calls you “supa-chunk”, even though you’re not all that super chunky anymore. Your legs still have the most delicious rolls, and you are still soft and cuddly all over - but your body has already started to lengthen and change and I see hints of the girl you will become. I haven’t the slightest notion how much you weigh or how tall you are, as we’ve become the sort of negligent hippy parents who forgo the regular series of well-baby check-ups. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re just about the perfect size for a one-year-old girl.

You’ve got mischief in your soul. You like to play little tricks, like pretending to lean in for a kiss and then turning your head at the last minute. You’ve already got such a sense of humor, and your eyes sparkle with delight when you know you’ve done something funny.

You’ve got the most divine laugh; it starts deep in your belly, and gurgles up and out of you. You love to laugh, and you laugh long and hard and loud, until you are gasping for breath and your body is shaking. You laugh with your whole body and heart and soul and your laugh is the sound of life and joy and bliss. I could never grow tired of hearing it and go to great lengths to make sure you laugh as often as possible. If only I could figure out how to bottle that sound and carry it around with me, I would surely never have a sad moment again for the rest of my life.

You are as ticklish as your father, and love to be tickled, just about anywhere will work. There are a million ways to make you giggle, but nobody can make you laugh the way Bella can. She needs to do nothing more than make a face, or dance and run around and you are nearly hysterical with laughter.

You live for your sister, Julie dear. Your world revolves around her, and you come alive when she is around. You watch her, and learn from her (sometimes this is not so desirable) and she often needs to do nothing more than look in your direction and you are delighted and happy and content.

Her feelings about you are currently a little more mixed - I fear she liked you a great deal more before you became mobile. Now she spends her time protecting her precious possessions from you, and picks you up by your armpits and drags you away from whatever it is you are threatening to invade, bother, knockdown or otherwise (in her opinion) irrevocably ruin. It is all I can do not to intervene when I see you being dragged down the hall, legs dangling as she hauls you this way and that – but I try to sit tight as long as I can see you are not in mortal danger and let you both set the dynamics of your relationship together. I’ve seen hints of some of the sibling fights that are sure to happen when you get older – you’ve gotten a little more determined and more than a little bit more stubborn lately, and you’re not hesitant to let your big sister know that you have your own opinion about things.

She calls you Julianna Banana (or sometimes just Banana), quite proud of herself for having been the one to come up with your nickname. Her heart is full of love for you, and she smothers you with hugs and kisses and declarations of love (whenever you are not infringing on her time, belongings or personal space).

It is such a gift to watch your bond develop. I am so happy you have each other – sisterhood is such a gift and I hope that you have the good sense to always treasure it (even when you are tearing each others hair out).

You’ve developed a bit of a temper of your own as of late – you have definite opinions and you make sure they are known. When you don’t want something your little hands bat it away furiously, and when I don’t do what you want to do, you look at me and yell and cry as if your heart were going to break. When you cry, you cry with words (‘ah dah maaaa waaa ga’, instead of ‘waa waa waa’) – so I am sure that if I only understood your language I would hear a melodramatic tale of woe and desperation.

When you’re really mad or sad, you crawl a few feet and then throw your head down on the floor as if in total defeat. This works to good dramatic effect on carpeted surfaces, but has proven rather dangerous for you on hard floors. You are learning this, and now pause right before your head hits the ground when on an unyielding surface. Smart girl.

You crawl like a speed demon – and when you are heading somewhere you don’t belong (or have other less than acceptable motives) and you sense someone is coming, your legs and arms move into warp speed. You are a champion stair climber. You’ve recently learned to turn around and head down backwards – which brings me much relief, as you are dead set on climbing up every set you come across. You are an expert cruiser, and can use just about any piece of furniture, the wall, or various body parts of people in your vicinity to get where you want to go. You love to have us hold your hand and walk you around the room, in and outside, up and down stairs. You dig in your heels and turn on a dime – always quite sure of where you want to go next. You would prefer to do this all. day. long. We humor you until our backs ache from being hunched over, but the second we try to let go, you sink to the ground as if your legs suddenly turned to Jell-O and you protest mightily.

You’ve taken three or four steps at a time on a few occasions (only when the payoff looked really big – like when Bella had some candy jewelry you wanted to try), but beyond that show little desire or motivation to learn to walk. I’m convinced – given how steady you are on your feet – that you could have been standing and walking months ago if you had cared to. Apparently you don’t see the need yet, but I sense it will not be long.

You love to clap your hands, a fairly recent trick – you bring your hands together so gently and softly that you don’t make a sound, but are understandably delighted with your own brilliance just the same. You love to play ‘Pat-A-Cake’ and will point your finger when we get to ‘mark it with a B’ and throw your hands up in the air when I say “throw it in the oven for baby and me’. ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’ is another favorite – and we all think you’re so clever when you attempt the hand motions. You seem to have very good motor skills, and enjoy games that involve putting things into holes or containers, or stacking one thing on top of another. You are an observer of life, a watch and learn kind of girl. You seem to wait until you’ve figured it all out in your head – and then you go for it. You rarely miss anything, and that is usually clear when you suddenly copy something you have seen us do – like stick car keys in doors, or turn on the television.

You’ve begun to communicate increasingly your needs increasingly well. You wave ‘hi’ and ‘bye’, shake your head ‘no’ and nod your head ‘yes. You can sign ‘ hat’, ‘all done’ ‘fan’, ‘more’, ‘nurse’, ‘touch’, dog’, ‘fish’, ‘flower’, ‘book’, ‘duck’, ‘bird’ and ‘eat’. You spoke your first words (‘baa-baa’ for ‘bye-bye’ and ‘haaa’ or ‘hiya’ for ‘hi’) a few months ago. I’m ashamed to say I have no idea exactly when, but I’ll guess and say somewhere between nine and ten months.

You can also say puppy (pup-pup), all done/gone, (ahhh da/gong), hat, mama, dada, touch (tut), ball (baa), door (dooah), cat (tat), duck (dut), quack-quack (taak, taak), out (ot), up, no-no-no-no (accompanied by empathic shaking of your head), uh oh (uh uh), down, doin (As in “whatcha doin?) apple (app-uh), tractor (tac-tuh), doll (dah), brrrmmmm (which you say whenever you push a toy vehicle around). Unfortunately, as your sister has recently succumbed to the commercial machine that is Dora The Explorer – you also say Dora (Doh-doh). I *think* I’ve heard you say Bella, but I could not say for sure. New words are appearing every day now, and I can only assume I’ll have to give up on keeping track rather soon.

Aside from the words that we grownups can understand – you seem to speak all day long in the complex sentence structure of a language only you comprehend. You have long conversations (with yourself and with others) in your own particular version of gibberish. Like everything about you, it is adorable. The other thing you like to say all the time is oodele-oodele-oodele-oodele, or multiple variations on the same theme. Do I have to tell you that you are irresistibly cute when you do that? I didn’t think so

Of all your words, you like to say Mama the most. You call for me when you want me, and will stand at the bottom of the stairs holding the gate calling “Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma” with increasing desperation if I don’t quickly appear. Recently you’ve decided to be a big girl, and have started calling me ‘Mum’. Your sister took forever to say Mama – so I’m reveling in your affinity for the word.

Your other most favoritest thing to say is Na-Na. Na-Na alternately means banana (your favorite food), night-night, nummies (nursing), or anything at all you want, don’t want, need to tell me, or feel like expressing. For you Jules, Na-Na is a universal word (rather like Om, I think) and you use it whenever there is something the world needs to know. What exactly that is, I often have to guess. You are not always patient with me while I figure it out. After all, you know exactly what you mean – shouldn’t the rest of the world?

It has become clear to me that your desire to nurse and your ability to sleep are inversely proportionate to one another. I’ve spent most of your first year of life dealing with this. Surrender does not come easy to me, dear one. As always, you are the best teacher I could ask for, and we’re getting better and better at navigating this tough stuff together. Sleep is not all that important to you, and is very important to me – until recently this remained the most difficult part of our relationship. But you just keep plugging away at me until I learn the lesson I need to learn – and then things get better.

We sleep together now, and our shared sleep has become the cornerstone of our relationship (something I could never understand when I was adamant that I would not become a co-sleeper). Sleeping curled up with you - your skin next to mine, your breath on my cheek, your hearts beating together - this has healed me in a way I could never have anticipated. It took a connection as deep as the deepest depths of the ocean and somehow made it deeper. It opened my heart to so many things. This is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. Thank you for not giving up on me.

Most nights I don’t even have to move – you stir and crawl on top of me, draping yourself over my body and finding my breast without even opening your eyes. Now that is lazy nighttime parenting! There is much to write about this topic, far too much to include in a birthday letter, but I’ll just say that it amazes me that I always manage to make something simple into something so complex. If only I had gotten out of my own way and listened to you (and many friends much wiser than myself) earlier – perhaps we would both have avoided much stress and many sleepless nights. Live and learn.

You are a Mama’s girl – through and though. Much less shy that your big sister, you are usually happy to be with friends and relatives, as long as I am not in sight or earshot. As soon as you can hear or see me, all bets are off. There are times, of course, when this wears a bit thin for a tired Mama, but I have to admit that I love the fact that our connection is so strong. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Comfort for you comes from my breasts – you’ve even stopped sucking your thumb for the most part (which you did for a long time in the car, or when you’d finished nursing for the night). You nurse to sleep, you nurse when you are hurt, you nurse when you are cranky, you nurse just because.

You are a grand champion nursing yogi. You can attain some seriously complex positions without ever removing your mouth from my nipple. You spend a great deal of time in some variation of Downward Dog – but I’ve seen other more impressive poses as well. You love to rise up on your knees and launch yourself forward onto my breast – hurling yourself towards your target with great speed and surprising accuracy. When you are in a playful mood, you love to nurse a little, then pull off and blow a great big raspberry right on my nipple. You went through a less than enjoyable period where you decided to pinch various areas of my tender flesh while nursing as a complementary soothing technique – luckily you’ve dropped that in favour of fiddling with my belly button. Rather irritating after a while, but at least not painful.

Mama may be best, but you do love your Daddy just as much (only differently). When he comes home from work your face lights up and your entire body quivers with excitement. You can’t wait to be in his arms, and will lay your head against his shoulder, tighten your arms around him and give him big ‘loves’. When your father arrived in Canada after being away from us for a month you knew him right away – pointing at him and saying “Dad-dy” with perfect clarity – and a huge grin on your face.

Your devotion to the breast is absolute, but your interest in other food comes and goes. It is only in the last few months that the relentless spitting up finally began to subside (Do you know our vacuum will forever stink of baby puke because of you?) and with this you started to show your first real interest in solid food. It is only in the last month or so that you’ve really eaten any substantial amount – but you are quickly discovering that there is a world of interesting flavours and tastes out there to discover. You did not have a single tooth until the week before you turned eleven months old, when you got three all at once. You have another two now – and can manage to eat just about anything at all. The other day you ate a huge dinner of spaghetti with meat sauce and garlic bread, even came back for seconds – but days can go by where you do little more than nurse.

Fresh fruit is almost always a hit, as are most veggies. You appear to be a meat lover, just like your daddy – quite amusing as I have recently started to seriously contemplate vegetarianism. Right now nothing beats fresh berries that you pick yourself off the bushes in Grammie C’s back yard, smearing your face and clothing in bright berry juice until your belly is full. You’ve recently managed to get mouthfuls of ice cream, potato chips and other various and sundry junk food. You have expressed your clear approval each and every time you’ve tasted any of the contraband. I fear you have inherited my taste for all things unhealthy. Sigh.

You have some neat food talents, like the ability to eat the inside of a green pea, but spit out the outer shell every. single. time. Tonight you grabbed a French fry from my hands and immediately dipped it carefully in the ketchup on my plate. You enjoy feeding yourself, and will reject almost anything that requires adult assistance. You are quite determined to use a spoon and fork without our assistance – and do a much better job than I’d expect of a one-year old. Clever, clever girl.

I knew long before you were born that you would be a water baby, your spirit first came to me on the bow of a boat in Hawaii. I was riding the ten foot waves up and down long after the rest of the tourists had headed down into the cabin (except for your father, who spent the entire four hours at sea puking off the back of the boat, but that is another story for another day) and feeling the salt spray hit my face. I had not felt that alive in years. In an instant, and with great spiraling force – you were with me. You came to me that day with such power and grace, and you were just as real to me then as you are to me now.

Your connection to water is as strong, perhaps even stronger, than my own. You are a part of the sea, and the sea is a part of you. Your ancestors were ship builders, their hands formed some of the great tall ships that sailed around the world. Your ancestors were ships captains, and they lived their lives according to the times and tides and whims of the water. Your ancestors were fishermen, toiling hour after hour to bring in the catch. They all knew the strength and pull and danger and power and love of the ocean. You have salt water in your veins just as sure as you have blood. Water is life to you, sweet Jules.

It does not matter if it is a city water fountain, a country lake or the Atlantic or Pacific Ocean (all of which cradled your body within your first year of life). When you see water, you head for it with great determination and not the slightest bit of fear or hesitation.

When you are immersed in water, you move like you were born to be there – arms stretching out, legs kicking and body undulating like the cutest amphibious creature to ever feel the water glide over her skin. You dip your face in the water over and over and laugh and laugh with the greatest joy. Your Great Aunt Lois said that you just might learn to swim before you learn to walk. It is true – I think if I had the courage to let you go, you would show me just what a water baby you really are.

You don’t always want to be in the water (you have little interest in taking a bath), but you always want to be near it. On your first visit to the ocean, you fell asleep in your Daddy’s arms, listening to the pounding surf. You stayed asleep almost the entire time we were at the beach – the salt air and the sound of the waves and the feel of the sand on your skin bringing you the deepest and most peaceful slumber you had experienced in weeks. On this vacation you often crawl yourself down close to the water and sit and contemplate the universe, eat a few rocks, dig your feet into the shore and grin your happiest grin. You know where you belong.

__________

On the morning of your birthday you awoke with a fever, clearly feeling entirely miserable. All you wanted to do was cuddle into my chest, heat radiating from your body, eyes glassy, body limp. At one point your fever got high enough that your Daddy and I thought we might be spending the rest of your birthday at the emergency room – but just as we started to make calls to find out where to bring you, your fever broke and you started feeling a little bit better.

Just a little bit better though, and when the time came for your party (planned by your sister with great enthusiasm and a degree of seriousness perhaps greater than the occasion warranted) you were still far from your usual sweet and happy self. Your party had a duck theme (but Dora cups, napkins and plates – which Bella assured me you would like). Grammie D and Bella made you the cutest duck-shaped cake, but their efforts were wasted on you. You took one swipe of the icing with your finger and started to cry. It got on your face when you batted your hands furiously and you screamed even harder. I hate to say it, but this made us all laugh a great deal. Cruel, but true.

You were mildly more interested in the present opening – especially the many rubber ducks of various shapes and sizes, and the Little People Airplane (chosen by Bella after repeated trips up and down all the toy aisles and much discussion and debate). Still – you were rather unimpressed with the whole party scene. Perhaps next year you’ll prove yourself to be in more of a party mood.

I had hoped to spend some time alone with you on your birthday. I wanted to take you out into the fields of my childhood and show you the trees and paths and hiding places that form my happiest childhood memories. I wanted to talk to you about your birth, and about your life. I wanted to tell you about me and learn more about you. I wanted to celebrate your birth in private, to lie on the grass nose to nose and absorb the beauty of the moment into every cell of my body. Alas, with your father, Grand Maman, Pepere and Grampie having just arrived and the fact that we were preparing to leave the next morning – our time alone did not happen. I’ll take a raincheck – we’ve got a date for next year, and don’t you forget it.

Last night, one year from your birth, we fell asleep together in your Great Grandmother’s house. This house sheltered her in her labours and heard the first cries of three homeborn children. It is the house of my childhood summers, the house I slept in the night before I married your father. If a house could tell its own stories, this one would only tell tales of love. It seems fitting that we closed the circle of your first year in this house.

My sweet Julianna, My only true sadness for your first year of life is that we were separated in the hours following your birth. A necessary separation, yes, but no less agonizing for that fact. I had dreamed of lying in bed with you, nursing my newborn baby and lying awake and watching you sleep by my side. I have long mourned those lost irreplaceable hours, the magic of holding you fresh from my womb, of breathing in your smell and getting to know you while on a euphoric birth high. I can never recapture those particular hours, but last night we created a new birthday memory. We curled around each other, I gave you milk from my body, and love from my heart, and in return, you took that sadness from me, and told me that it was time to let go.

I meant to stay awake until the exact moment of your birth, to remember and honour your passage into the world. I didn’t, because your sweet breath and soft skin and the glug-glug of the frogs in the pond across the street and the sing-song of the crickets in the grass and late night air blowing in the window lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up the world was just beginning to take on the magical quality that it only has right before the sun begins to rise. When it is still dark but the outer edges of night have just begun to sparkle with the faintest light. I’ve always thought of it as a rather enchanted time, ripe with possibility and tinged by mystery.

It was raining. Not the relentless thunderstorm of the night you were born, but a gentle summer shower, refreshing the air, sprinkling the earth, ushering in the dawn.

I had so hoped it would rain on your birthday. It seemed so right that your second year of life should begin with such a gentle summer rain. Gentle, soft, full of peace. Just like you my sweet Jules.

I smiled, curled myself around you once more, and went back to sleep.

My daughter, my heart.

I love you beyond.