Seven

Dear Zoë
SERIOUSLY. I'm not a walking pacifier. I'm a person. A person with lots of laundry to do.
Kthx, mom

Six

Dear Zoë,
Sleeping on the couch sitting up really isn't terribly comfortable. Maybe you could consider the possibility of not using me as a human pacifier so that I can sleep horizontally for at least a few hours. I promise, I'll be a nicer person in the morning.
Love, Mom

Five

Dear Zoë,
How does such a tiny person spray a sneeze 4 feet across a room? I thought I was safe over here. Obviously not. Impressive.
Love, Mom

Four

Dear Zoë,

Sometimes, even when I'm the most stupid tired I've ever been, I could stay awake for hours just to stare at you. Your little squishy gummy smiles and gurgly coos are like espresso for this sleepy lady who loves you so much. I just can't get enough of you, squirming around and eating your hands in your rock n' play in pink footsie pjs, staring through to my soul with the brightest eyes I've ever seen.

However, this does NOT excuse your recent sleeping habits. You're still grounded.

Love, Mom

Three

Dear Zoë,

I am in love with your face. That is all.

Love, Mom

Two

Dear Zoë,

It's time you start taking a pacifier. For realsies. Despite what you believe, your hands are not made of ham, and you can't actually devour them like you're trying to. Pacifier. You'll like it, I swear. And someday, when you're two and I'm cursing at myself for ever giving it to you, I can just take it away, which is far more than I can say about your fists.

Thanks, Mom

One

Dear Zoë,

I just wanted you to know that, even though I might have had more time to take pictures of your older brother, and even though I haven't spent as much time playing on a blanket with you, thus resulting in your failure to roll over by now, I do love you every bit as much as him.

In fact, this blog is just for you. He doesn't even get one. There. Throw that in his face when you guys are pre-teens, arguing over which one is loved more, each trying to convince the other that you're not the adopted one. Of course he has the bigger room, so he's got that over you, but maybe by then you'll have argued about it so much that your dad and I will have decided you can both just live in the family room. Or the garage. Or the backyard. Side note: choosing a home to raise your family in when you're 27 leads to bad decisions like not paying attention to the fact that you've chosen a floor plan with one regularly sized room and one gigantor room. But I digress.

These letters are just for you, piglet. And I hope that someday, when you most need to hear them, you'll read them and think of your mom, typing away on the "notes" app of her stupid, obsolete iPhone that was all the rage in 2012 in the middle of the night with you curled up in her lap, snorting and mouth breathing in the fashion that's earned you your nickname. Perfect and soft and warm against me.

I love every little tiny thing about you. Even though you smile just when my camera loses focus of you. Even though you always spit up into your chins after your bath, you poop in your clean diapers, and you cry as soon as I sit down to eat dinner. Even though you drool only onto my favorite clothes and you insist on being held at all the times of all the days. And even though I'm rolling my eyes and saying something about Darwin's theory really being about babies' cuteness saving them from getting chucked at things, I love every minute when I'm with you. I'd rather be pulling my eyelashes out in frustration over getting you to nap than sitting on any beach in Tahiti because someday, when you're grown up, I will still be wishing to be here. Late at night when no one else is awake in the world but us, sitting on the bed in the dark and holding your tiny face in my elbow, listening to your quiet sighs. Wishing I could stare at you long enough that you won't get any bigger any faster, not wanting you to grow out of my arms.

Love you for always, Mom