Dear Joey (Month One),

(Written 8/8/13)

Well, okay. You’re five weeks. And one day. Maybe two days, depending on when I finish this. I’m sorry, it can’t be helped. Because when I get to heaven (maybe, given the amount of swearing I’ve done the last five weeks), there are a few things I need to talk to God about regarding this whole reproductive process thing, chief among them are the fact that women don’t know when they are going to give birth until their emotionally distant OB says they’re being induced while they’re lying on a ultrasound table during a “routine” check and that’s a little stressful, and that you have to recover from childbirth and take care of a newborn at the same time which means things like blog posts and taking pictures goes out the window.

Also, postpartum preeclampsia. What’s up with that, God? I did not appreciate the ER trip with student nurses acting all judgy that I was still swollen at six days after delivery.


It’s so stupid to say you’ve changed in the last month, because of course you have. You were inside me until five weeks ago and now you’re a chubby infant who is very close to coo-ing. That’s unbelievable.

You can smile, like real smiles, not just gas-smiles. Which you do a lot of too, because you’re your daddy’s little boy. Or at least, I’ve been told you can. You smile at your great-grandma, and at least one grandma, and Daddy. Not me, the person who (mostly) gave up alcohol for you. And almost died.

You hate having your diaper changed, and having your clothes changed, and being bathed. Pretty much anything where you’re moved from where you’re warm and comfy and swaddled and asked to do something else, you don’t like.

Your aunt Colleen says you’re like me in this regard. As it is how I approach most changes in life.

You’re a good little sleeper- you go to bed by yourself and only get up twice during the night. Daddy and I appreciate this quite a lot. If you had kept up the every-fifteen-minutes thing from the first week I think we all would have gone insane, including your big sister who vacillates between saying how much she loves you (she calls you “the little fellow” and “Joe” for some reason), and desperately begging you to spend a night at Grandma Susan’s again.

I miss having you in our room, but frankly you’re my baby and it makes sense that you wanted your own space. You’re much happier (and better rested) now.

I remember singing “You Are My Sunshine” to you at the hospital the day after you were born. (Singing to you seemed like something I should do, although frankly I was too far gone with the blood loss to really care or know.) I started to cry because you really won’t ever know how much I love you. But if possible, I love you even more than that day.

Happy one month, buddy.