Milestones

My Baby Girl,

It’s been a year.  Three hundred and sixty-five full days. 

I’m not a superstitious person by any means, but these dates – November 10th, 11th and 12th – have been looming in my mind. 

When we came home from the hospital, a year ago today, I made a deal with myself that if I could keep you healthy for a year, I could stop worrying so much about your future. 

A whole year.  A lofty goal, if ever there was one.

But here you are, my gorgeous little girl, smiling and laughing without a care in the world.  We made it, me and you.  A year.  Nearly a third of your life without a major illness. 

What a milestone, and you don’t even know you’ve reached it.

Just looking at you, today, brings tears to my eyes.

Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites, you know.  And I don’t.  I don’t prefer you or your sister over each other.  But my love for each of you is different.  Custom made, day by day.

So much of life before you was filled with what the future held, with making plans, with expectations, with tiny little details that didn’t really matter.

Since you came into my life, though, I haven’t taken a single thing for granted.  Not for a moment. 

We’ve had to fight for this, haven’t we, baby girl?  From the very beginning, nothing about your life has been simple or ordinary. 

I sit back and watch you sometimes, doing your little girl things, and I’m amazed that we have reached this place.  This point in time where you can just wake up in the morning and go through your day like it’s no big deal.  As though tomorrow is guaranteed. 

I am so happy to be in this place – this now – with you.

You amaze me, my sassy second child.  You are filled with the kind of fire most people only dream of, and you’re only three.  Three! 

Today, I dare to think of what the future holds for you. 

And now here you are, sleeping next to me.

Of course I needed you near me on the anniversary of the most traumatic night of our lives, didn’t I?  The night that haunted us for months.  The night that changed the lives of every single person involved.

I had to have you close to me, so that I could smell you and hear you breathe and bury my face in your hair.  So that I could reach out and touch you and know that you are here, right here, with me.

I am so glad you’re here, baby girl.

And you are well. 

Yes, you are.

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To read the story from a year ago, go here, here and here although, reading those posts again, a year later, I can’t believe I left out so much of what happened.