One year ago today, in a hospital in Manhattan, at 10:18 a.m.,
on what had to be the coldest day of the year (though I’m too lazy to look it up),
you were born.
It was the best day of my life.
Mostly because for many years, I thought I couldn’t have you
but there you were
half daddy, half me,
but 100 percent your own.
I suddenly felt this incredible responsibility to somehow do you justice.
We brought you home on New Year’s Eve in a snowstorm,
feeding you as the ball dropped hazily in the background.
And all throughout the year
there were really high highs (smiles, crawls, steps, words)
And really low lows (nursing woes, mood swings and have I mentioned the baby weight?)
Moments that made me beam (“Does she EVER get fussy?”)
Moments that confused me (Did we pick the right doctor? The right daycare? Are vaccinations evil?)
Moments when I had to admit that perfection was not an option (jarred baby food is ALMOST as good as homemade, RIGHT?)
And moments when I once again realized that your dad really rocks (“Sleep, honey…I’ll get her”)
And times when I realized that it’s OK to be who *I* was born to be (“Wait, I kinda LIKE being back at work”).
We saw you go from a little swaddled burrito
to a bye-bye-waving, “uh oh” saying, cabinet opening, dancing-and-singing, almost running walker.
I think it’s pretty fitting, Gilly,
that you were born at the end of one year and the dawn of another.
A time that makes everyone reflect on how they can be a better person
because you’ve certainly done that to me.
Happy first birthday to my little girl
(Cake is on its way.)