We've all been through a huge transition recently—perhaps the largest one we've been through since you emerged from your cozy, fluid womb environment into this bright, loud world. Papa, Matthew, you, and I have moved into a new house.
We were excited to make this move, and hopeful about the prospect of stability and consistency we would be afforded by owning a home. Like all transitions in life, there have been both happy and difficult things about making this change together. One thing I didn't anticipate fully is how strange it would feel to leave the place where you were born.
You see, Daniel, most babies these days (about 99% of those born in the United States) are born in places designed specifically for birth: labor and delivery rooms, birthing centers, and operating rooms. Mamas and families go to these places to birth their babies and then they come back home after a short stay there, spending a relatively brief amount of time in the rooms where their kiddos are born.
You nursed for the first time in that room while we were still attached to each other by a pulsing cord. You nursed for the very last time in that room one morning after you woke up calling out to me, "Momma!"
You were born in the room where Papa and I spent countless hours holding you, bouncing you, rocking you, singing to you, and (I) nursing you to help comfort you through your crying. It was in that room that we first realized that you might be dealing with serious sensory issues and that we needed to seek help.
You had spent the vast majority of your hours up until now in that home, and many of them in that very room where you took your first breaths and cried your first tiny cries. But the time came to say goodbye and move on together to a new place we now call home.
And then we left.
You are already building new memories and experiences of this new house. I wonder if you'll remember this move as you get older. You had the language to describe it ("old house" and "new house," and also "move" and "home") so I wouldn't be surprised to have a conversation with you about it down the road. My family of origin moved from Texas to Pennsylvania when I was about your age, and I recall small tidbits about that transition, about the old house and the new house.
I look forward to the many years we'll have together in this home: the milestones, the mistakes, the laughs...even the tears. Your birthplace will always be special to Momma, and it's still close by, so we can visit sometimes.
We will ride our bikes there together someday and I will tell you the story of the morning you were born. Right there, in the room behind that big window up there. It was wide open with the curtains billowing, filling the room with the cool Spring breeze as the sun came up.
It was raining.
It was perfect.
Just like you.