Dear Rufs, Poops, Pooper Scoop.
As nicknames go, I think you drew the short straw. For the first few months, you were Doofus. Poofus gradually took over and now you’re generally just referred to as Poopy. I appreciate it’s not the most glamourous of names to go by, but it suits you. Sorry.
So, we’ve had you for a year. Twelve whole months. As is always the way with this thing they call “parenthood”, I can’t remember a life without you in it and yet, I have no idea where the last twelve months have gone.
You were a very special baby. A rainbow. You won’t undertand what that means right now, but you arrived at the end of our storm. I was pregnant five times before you were born. Daisy and Ralph came first, but then three more babies, didn’t make it. I dont know why. No one could ever give me any answers. So when I fell pregnant with you, I was just waiting for something to go wrong. Even when we made it beyond 12 weeks. Even when I began to feel your little (and eventually very hard) kicks inside me. The entire time that you were growing in there, strong and healthy, I worried that I wouldn’t get to keep you. But you stuck with me. We were a team, you and I, and you fought with me every step of the way. One cold October day, you arrived swiftly, on the floor of the living room (I’m saving one of the sofa cushions to gift to you on your 18th, since it’s now stained with the evidence of your arrival on this earth) a living, breathing, screaming and utterly beautiful baby boy. I have never experienced gratitude like it. There will never be a day of your life when I don’t realise just how lucky I am to have you. Even though you haven’t let me sleep for a year.
I’ll be honest with you, your birthday was somewhat overshadowed this year. You see, when the month began, you were set to become a big brother. I’ve always wanted a big family, Rufus, which is part of the reason we tried so long and hard for you. I wanted to complete us. I wanted one final piece to our puzzle; but in a cruel twist of fate, reminiscent of those dark days that ultimately brought me to you, I lost another baby. So now, I’m not sure you’ll ever be an older sibling. And I’m sorry about that because already, its clear you are a nurturing little soul. But I don’t think you’ll mind. You seem to relish the attention bestowed upon the baby of the family. You already have your siblings wrapped around your finger and even your Dad, who, let’s be frank, has never shown much interest in small humans until they’ve mastered the ability to wipe their own bum-bum (as Ralphy calls it).
Even our pets love you too. Especially Clicquot, who has become your cat. You guys sleep together every night (in my bed because you apparently hate your cot). She’s your playmate when the big two are at school and watching your relationship progress, from her refusing to leave your side when you were a newborn, to the gentle cuddles that you constantly force on her now, it’s insanely cute. As are you, little dimple face. You have quite the online fandom. And I’ve enjoyed sharing you with them. A whole network of people, whom you’ve never met, but they adore you anyway. They rejoiced when you were born. When you finally mastered breastfeeding without decimating my nipples. That one time you slept through the night. The moment, at nine months old, when you simply decided that crawling wasn’t enough and that you’d walk instead, like it was no big thing. They’ve been there through all of that, which might seem a little weird to some, but hopefully by the time you’re old enough to read this, you’ll be able to appreciate blogger life and all that that entails.
I’m not sure you’ll ever truly know what you mean to us, Poops. I love all three of you fiercely and with everything I have, but you are the one who fixed me when I was so broken and for that, I will always be thankful.
So, baby boy, I’ve rambled on for long enough. Happy flipping birthday, my smallest one. You are everything.
I love you.
I just wish you’d sleep!