Dear "Elizabeth Taylor,"

It is hard to write you now. I think of it often, how I communicated to you in utero and now that you are here, I struggle with words to encapsulate this moment.

Pregnancy. Childbirth. Learning to "Mother."

I never thought it would be this hard. I know I've heard about the intensity of the first few weeks, but no disclaimers prepared me for it. It is so difficult I can't see straight. I haven't slept for more than three hours since you were born, but still, saddled to this apartment and exhausted with the immense task of you, I see you and begin to coo and tell you how much I adore you. Your sweetness wipes it all away and I force myself through it. This only happens once, I tell myself.

Spring is beginning and I know that it won't be long and you and I will out in the sunshine. I look forward to that. I see us as partners in crime who will run about and experience this city together: long walks downtown, the art museum, the zoo, the botanical gardens, bookstores and libraries, hiking, you name it.

Just as no one's warnings could prepare me for the difficulty of this, there way of telling me how incredibly rewarding this could be. I am bowled over. I am smitten. I am chained to you in ways I never thought possible. I feed you and find that act alone a miracle. I wait with baited breath for you to need me and subsequently feel frustrated because I am needed so much. (Ha!) Perhaps it is cliche to say, but it's true: you've changed my life.

I love you, and thank you -- thanks for being so wide-eyed and beautifully made. Thanks for being healthy and so sweet-smelling. Thanks for being exactly what we asked for, prayed for, and imagined. You are perfect.

Love,

Cabbage