A letter to my daughter on the occasion of her first birthday

The inspiration to write this note to you came about in a very un-inspiring way. I was leaning over your crib, a little after midnight, trying to see if I could get a whiff of that tell tale scent that would let me know if you needed a diaper change. (You’d been sporting a bit of a diaper rash lately and the last thing I wanted was for you to be sleeping in a dirty diaper.)

Thankfully I came up empty handed. But before I left the room I took a moment to watch you as you slept, (creepy I know), and I couldn’t help but think that it was going to be a real shame that some day I was going to forget all about this moment.

There wasn’t anything particularly memorable about the scene. It was the same kind of thing I’ve been doing for a few months now and it had simply become part of my nightly routine before bed. All in all, it was a small, perfectly forgettable situation but for whatever reason the emotional ups and downs of the previous year crept up on me and I knew that it was important that I get this all out now before the feeling passed.

When we first found out we were pregnant we got a lot of advice from friends who suggested that we take advantage of these last child free moments to live life to the fullest. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. We had to spend our time selling our condo downtown and looking for a new house. And when we did move we had a lot of work to do getting the house fixed up in preparation for your arrival. It was a very busy time and I don’t think either one of us ever felt like we had a moment to just sit back and appreciate what was about to happen.

You showed up late.

We had to wait a week after your expected due date to see you. The days seemed to pass so slowly. With the growing anticipation it was a bit like waiting for Christmas, only you didn’t know the date Christmas was going to come. It could be three hours or three days from now.

I was at work when I got the call and I rushed home. Your mother picked me up at the train station and I drove us to the doctor’s office. After a quick discussion the doctor decided it was time for you to join us. We rushed to the hospital. Your grandparents and your aunts came and everyone was very excited. Pretty soon they had to leave the room though; you were coming faster than the doctor expected.

I remember the delivery room was very crowded. It was my job to brace your mother’s leg and count down how long she should push for. I was so nervous and excited I kept speeding up the count and the doctor had to tell me to slow down. But your mom was such a greater pusher, ask anyone, that the whole thing was over very fast.

I remember seeing your head. Your eyes popped open and you were looking around, angry at something it seemed. Then you opened your mouth and started screaming. (You didn’t stop crying for another twelve hours.) As the doctor passed you to your mother I shouted, “it’s a girl, a girl!”


Its impossible for me to describe what it felt like to see you for the first time. I was lightheaded and my knees seemed about to give away on me. I remember leaving the room briefly to tell everyone that you had arrived and feeling like my heart was to big for my chest.

I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you. I don’t think I’ve ever felt love erupt out of nothing to instantly become a raging bonfire. The transformation to crazily overprotective father was nearly instantaneous.

But there were some low times as well. The first few months were very trying. You weren’t a big fan of eating and you hated sleeping even more. And you cried, you cried all the time. I used to come home from work and strap you into the Baby Bjorn, walking up and down the hall with you for hours and hours. Sometimes I’d sing, sometimes I’d hum and sometimes I was even successful at getting you to sleep. But mostly we all just tried to tough it out.

You mother and I were often delirious from a lack of sleep. Some nights your mom would go to sleep at 7 or 8 o’clock, just so she could rest for a few hours before I would try to come to bed at midnight or so.

We were pushed as close to the edge as I think two people can go. But somehow we managed to get through it. A good thing too, because I would have missed so many wonderful things.

One of the qualities that I love most about you is that you’re a fighter which, considering your parentage, means you come by it honestly. The same drive that makes you fight sleep or refuse to be held, because being held means sitting still and that’s NO GOOD, is utterly captivating. There’s a fire in your belly, one that’s going to cause me no end of grief when you get older.

I watched you struggle for days to roll over on to your belly and the second you mastered the technique it was like you born to roll your entire life. The next thing I know you’re doing your best impression of the log driver’s waltz and bumping into walls and furniture because you just couldn’t remain still. The same was true when you learnt to crawl. You used to drag yourself along by your hands, legs dangling limply behind you, in some kind of bizarre dead man’s crawl because you just couldn’t wait long enough for the rest of you to figure it all out.

And now you’re walking, which adds another chaotic dimension to everything. If want something you don’t have to wait for one of us to bring it to you anymore, you can go and track it down by yourself. And that means climbing up stairs, climbing down stairs, emptying shelves and boxes, doing endless laps around the kitchen island and terrorizing the poor cat who has suddenly discovered he really isn’t safe anywhere now.

And its all fascinating to watch.

There isn’t enough time. Each day you seem to grow up a little more. Every day you’re a whole new person and the little bits of time I get with you here and there are never enough. You’re barely a year old and I’m already lamenting, not-so-quietly to myself, that everything is happening too fast.

There are a lot of milestones in the days ahead of us, ones that I know you’ll hurdle past with barely a thought. But to me those occasions are moments in time that I will hold onto for years to come.

I hope one day you’ll read this letter and we can sit around and talk about what you were like when you were a baby. And I hope that when that happens you’ll have a story or two of your own about the things you remember growing up. And maybe, if I’m really lucky, it will jog my memory and I’ll recall some of those small, not-so-important moments that end up meaning so much. But that’s a story for later. Today I’m just looking forward to going home and seeing the smile that lights up your face when I walk through the door. Right now, that’s all the pick me up I need.