Dear Brooks Wilder,

You're one. ONE! This year flew even faster than I thought it would.

A couple weeks ago, I baked vanilla cupcakes for your birthday party. As I whipped the batter and let your siblings taste-test the frosting, my mind went back to a year ago that day. A year before, I was not frosting cupcakes or feeling light and hopeful. Instead, I lumbered around as if I was carrying a baby elephant, contracting every few minutes but not dilating, wondering if you'd ever arrive. Your swift kicks into my right rib confirmed that yes, you were getting stronger and I was getting closer to meeting you. But I still had a hard time seeing the light at the end of what felt like an endless tunnel.

But then one bright June morning, you decided it was time. The hospital room was quiet, only the sounds of deep breaths through strong contractions and hymns playing in the background. We'd made it to a birthing room - my only birth plan after giving birth to Lanie in triage - and I felt safe and ready to meet you, mercifully two weeks early.

Within a couple hours, you were ready to come. There were other patients my doctor needed to see, but I pleaded with her: "I know I can do this in a few pushes. Please just stay." She agreed, gowned up, and I pushed you out in one long contraction. You didn't cry and needed deep suction to clear your lungs after such a quick passage through the birth canal. But you were perfect. As soon as they placed you on my chest, you stared up at me and looked so familiar, as if I'd known you for a hundred years.

The next few months proved difficult. You did not sleep at night. I made my nest in a bed next to your crib for months on end, hoping it would be easier to nurse you every 2-3 hours without making a trip down the hall. But after 5 months of this, I finally noticed a trend: I'd pick you up to nurse, you'd take one good drink, then you'd nestle in and fall back asleep. You didn't want food. You wanted your mama.

Even now, you're not our best sleeper. The other night, after a 12-hour shift at the hospital, I was exhausted and complained to Shawn as I dragged myself out of bed at the sound of your cry,

This feels never-ending.

I meant not-sleeping-through-the-night. But when I said it, I felt a pang of guilt. Because it does end. Seasons change. Babies will not always need their mamas to hold them in the midnight hours. On the week of your birthday, a dear friend buried her 19-year-old son. His death came suddenly and served as such a startling reminder that we aren't promised tomorrow. I've been holding you a little closer, walking a little lighter into your room at night when you cry out for me to hold you. These days are precious and numbered and fleeting.

Since changing your name at 7 weeks old, you've garnered a plethora of nicknames: Brooksie, Brooksie Bear, Bear Bear, Boo, and Mr. Wilder (Lanie). You respond most quickly to "Bear."

Bear, your Daddy and I say it every day, but I'll say it again: you are a dream come true. Our dream come true.

I love you, son. Happy birthday!

Love,
Mom

My favorite kind of before and after.

Left: July 2015
Right: December 2017

We're celebrating half a year with Brooks Wilder under our roof, and it's hard to imagine life before him. Putting photos side-by-side, though, makes it real. He was just a dream and now he's here, woven into every precious moment of our family. 

We couldn't have believed how much Liam and Lanie adore him. We affectionately call them "the fruit flies" because the moment Brooks enters the room, they swarm to him and won't leave him alone until they've smothered every surface of his chubby cheeks. The mornings are especially intense with Brooksie love, so I've started setting a timer for each child to get one-on-one time with him. Who wouldn't want to keep all that joyful squish all to themselves? I don't blame them for a second.

Brothers.

This image so typifies this new normal of ours: little brother is a bit fussy, so big brother asks to cuddle him, undeterred by his crying and squirming. Just look at Liam's face: pure love. He tells us every day, "I knew I would love him on the outside, but I didn't know I'd love him this much."

30 weeks.

Dear Baby of mine,

We've been in this thing together for 30 weeks now and you're just now getting a letter. Welcome to third child-dom, my littlest love. It doesn't mean I cherish you one ounce less than your brother and sister. It's just that I never get a chance to sit down and pen a letter to you - or even sit down in general. Until now.

You're growing like a weed, and I adore the feeling of your rumblings and kicks and hiccups all day long. Our doctor has been quick to warn us that because of the anterior placement of the placenta during this pregnancy, I may not feel quite as much movement - and not to worry if that's the case. But just the opposite has been true. I think you've been our most active baby yet, and your Daddy and your brother love to watch you roll and tumble under my skin.

You've been my constant companion at the hospital and the center of many conversations with patients. The other night at work was an especially heavy one as one of my patients neared the end of his life. The medical team and the patient's family were in agreement that he should be transitioned to "comfort care" and his tube feedings (his only source of nutrition as he wasn't alert enough to eat by mouth) would stop. It fell on me - his nurse - to actually stop those feedings.

My legs felt heavier than lead as I walked to his room to stop the feedings and remove his IV. As I entered the room, I rested my hand on his smooth, bald head and whispered the words of Numbers 6:24-26:

The Lord bless you and keep you; 
the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;
the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

He continued to sleep peacefully as I reached up to turn off the feeding pump. As soon as I did, you did a giant leap in my belly. It was one of your biggest movement yet, and was such a stunning reminder of life in the midst of impending death. You brought tears in my eyes with the realization that that's what we all, as believers, are called to be: a stunning reminder of life - of joy, hope, resurrection, and our incredibly bright future - in the midst of a dying world. I pray you continue to do just that, little one. Continue to remind us all of Jesus, the only true Source of life in this passing world.

I'll admit that there's a piece of me that's anxious about what life will look like as a family of five. Will we be able to handle the sleepless months, the noise, the mess? But then I remember what a gift you are: hoped for, dreamed about, prayed for, deeply desired. I know the instant you're out, I'll never be able to imagine our family without you in it. If you come along the same timeline that your siblings did, we've got less than 9 weeks with you on the inside. I can hardly wait to see your face.

I love you, little rainbow baby,
Mommy