Two years ago, you were born

Your grandmother always told me that at each of my birthdays, she was reliving the moment I was born as if she was still there. I get it now. I'm pretty sure I will forever do the same.

You made an appearance shortly before lunch. Although not a piece of cake (especially without drugs), labor had not been very long or unbearable or traumatic in any way. I pushed for longer than necessary, because in my painful haze I couldn't understand what M and the amazing nurse were instructing me to do. M kept on monitoring your heartbeat and progress, but I have to admit all through these hours I didn't care so much about you, I was just deeply focused on my own surreal experience, what I know see as probably the last (pain-induced) bout of selfishness of my life.

So finally there you were, and as much as it is a big cliche, in an instant my whole life changed. I had read that you don't always fall in love with your baby right from the beginning, and I fully expected this to happen. But it didn't. From the first second, it was you and me until the end of the world, it was a bond so strong I could have literally moved mountains for you right there and then.

And I do remember it as if I were still there. Despite being in the dead of winter, it was sunny and warm(ish) that day, and the cozy hospital room was inundated by a beautiful light. We were on the ground floor and we could hear children playing outside right by our window, something I still can't really explain but nonetheless interpreted as a very positive omen. We were listening to cool music on the iPod, munching, watching people buzz in and out as if they were part of a movie in slow motion. I was in an altered state of consciousness, and will always remember that afternoon as the happiest of my entire life. I was just totally at peace with the world, overwhelmed with feelings of wonder, astonishment, relief, love, serenity, hope, gratitude... Complete and hopeless happiness was exactly this: quietly lying down with my partner and our tiny first born between us, just looking at each other without being able to stop grinning.

People often marvel at the first year of a child's development, at how impressive it is to witness the transformation from a vulnerable infant to a being that can (about) walk and talk. I did enjoy your first year very much, and profusely documented it in your baby book (in it I've written you a letter last year as well). But without a doubt, your second year was the best of the two for me. If you could remember it later (which you will not), I'm sure that you would agree with me: being a baby definitely wasn't for you, and contrary to what almost everyone says, the more you grow up, the more fun and the easier it becomes.

Since your last birthday, you have never ceased to amaze me: from your first steps, to your seemingly effortless early picking up of language (you had started to combine words before you actually walked, after all), to your gradually morphing into this mischievous, good-humored, enthusiastic, emotional, intelligent, intuitive, cute and truly funny little boy. In the past year, you've been through (minor) surgery, behaved super well (most of the time) during our California vacation (which included two long flights), followed us on many road trips and long crazy days in New York, have been dragged to many restaurants, weddings, parties, and other events, started learning how to cook and to garden, visited a lot of family and friends, appreciated being out and about or just chilling at home, had your heartbroken when we switched daycares but after a week or two adapted remarkably well, and have been a good sport about us not always sticking to your routine...


There are a lot of things I wish I could freeze in time, and not being able to is sometimes making me want to curl up on the floor and cry. A big reason for me blogging is so I can at least save little snippets of what you say and do in writing. How yesterday you pointed at the image of a taxi and floored us by saying this perfectly structured, complete sentence: "Il s'en va à une autre place le taxi" (the taxi is going somewhere else). How you often mention Jujube, who used to be our cat (and whom we sent to live with your grandfather when you were 6 months old because she wasn't coping well with your arrival). You've only seen her twice since then and the last time was months ago, but still, you like to keep informed about her. How this morning when you took out your yellow Tonka tractor from the toy crate, you told me you were going to use it to remove the snow outside. How the other day when I told you that your birthday was coming up, you spontaneously said: "Au musée train" (at train museum), which is precisely where we will be celebrating it. I had only mentioned this to you once, weeks before. Then you disintegrated into a puddle when you learned that the party was not going to happen right this minute.

How whenever you ask where someone or something is and we tell you they have left ("il/elle est parti(e)"), you add: "À Québec?" (in Quebec City?), where three of your grandparents live. So in your world, Quebec City has seen its population dramatically increase in the last few weeks, and now includes Santa Claus, Tiger Woods, Barack Obama, Peyton Manning, the cast of Grey's Anatomy, a couple of Food Network show hosts, the Radio-Canada 6 o'clock news anchor, Percy the Train, Cookie Monster, your dad's car as well as Chanel, the neighbors' Lab. You now know that when the moon is out, the sun is sleeping ("fait dodo"), and vice-versa. You understand the concept of red and green traffic lights. Last week when your dad and I were in the home office for about five minutes paying some bills online, we emerged to find you running towards us with arms open, saying "Un beau feu?" (A nice/cosy fire?) We then saw that you had opened the fireplace screen, then carefully placed both logs and balled-up newspaper in there.

Lately, all I need to do to totally crack you up is to read something to you in Spanish, making me assume that the reason you find it so funny is because you understand that this is not the two languages you're accustomed to. You are starting to figure out letters and numbers, and sometimes correctly identify some of them, although it could still be sheer luck at this point. I've caught you counting to 10 once, when you thought I wasn't listening, although when we ask you to do it you usually mess it up and say something like "1,2,7,9,10!" When you ask me to sing the ABC song and I do it in French, you protest and shout: "Non! En anglais!" (In English!) You recognize Manhattan's skyline and always cheer when you see it (you've been like 5 times already, 8 if you count your time in the womb, while I waited until I was 30 years old to go). You know the names of nearly all the teachers and all the kids at daycare (and there are 70 of them), even when they don't know yours. You have a huge crush on your afternoon teacher Sabrina (whom you call "Bibina"), a thin, busty and tanned twenty-something, and keep talking to us about her (she totally loves you back, btw).


Please don't interpret this as a hall pass for you being allowed to do whatever you want (because I won't let you), but my sweet, sweet boy, you are the best thing that ever happened to me (sharing my life with your dad is a close second). I am lost for words when I try to express the depth of the completely unconditional love, tenderness and fierce protectiveness I have for you. I feel so lucky that we get to spend every day with you and watch you grow. Going through this amazing experience makes both your dad and I completely blissful, and removes any doubts in my mind about the real meaning of life. Your (magically joyful, pure and candid) laugh is now my fuel, my chicken soup, and my antidote.

Happy birthday LP! Hope the little party we have planned for you on Sunday is lots and lots of fun.