Dear baby boy.
Over the weekend, you started teething again. It's a nasty bout, from what I can gather, and it's given you a rough go at nighttime. At 2:30am on Sunday, you woke with wracking sobs - the kind that I just can't ignore or put in the Ferberization camp. I put you next to me in the bed and your breath-catching sighs slowed to sleep. I stayed awake, staring at your chubby fingers and long eyelashes with a captivation that only stalker moms can conjure up. How many more of these nights will we get, in all of their frustrating glory?
The thing is, you will not remember these early details. Not the books we read or our morning routines. Not the floors you learned to crawl on or your love of the bath. Not the nights when I wiped tears from your face while you slept. That's ok. I am the keeper of these memories, and someday when you're older, I'll tell you about all of the seemingly meaningless moments that meant the world to me.
I love you, always,
Your mush of a mom.