You're gonna want my autograph

Just so you guys know, I'm totally famous.

No? You're doubting me?  Well don't.

On Saturday, Hubby, Fraggle and I went on a shopping trip.  We had some time to kill, so we decided to have lunch at a nearby pub.  WITH THE BABY.

Now, you should acknowledge what a monumental accomplishment this is for us - as nervous, pathetic and completely exhausted first-time parents - to leave home for several hours WITH THE BABY.  It's what you call stress.

That's not what made us famous though.  (Although I do think we deserve some international recognition for this achievement.)

While in the pub, I tweeted this:

It was priceless.  They were betting on the game, shouting, cheering, and otherwise raising the roof, all in the name of Tiger wandering around a big green field with a big stick.

What I didn't mention in my tweet was that there was also a young good looking gal sitting in the pub by herself, knitting.  Yes, knitting.

Hubby and I laughed, because only in our friendly, boring city would a pub's patrons include a bunch of old guys all worked up for a golf game and, of course, a knitter.  Not to mention the young couple with the newborn baby.

Still not famous eh?

Well this morning Hubby texts me.  "Call me when you're up, I have a funny story."

Hubby's driving to work listening to the radio.  The morning DJs are taking calls about the weirdest thing people have witnessed in a pub.  The conversation continues, and the one DJ tells her story - how last weekend she was hanging out in a pub, getting a total kick out of the group of old guys watching a game of golf as if it were the Superbowl.  Oh, and how meanwhile, SHE WAS KNITTING.

Too funny.

So I of course place a phone call to the radio station and tell the whole story to the gal, who totally remembers us and fully agrees that this is a perfect example of the perfect pub, in the perfect city, in the perfect small world.

Then she plays our conversation on the radio, and BOOM - famous. So you can totally have my autograph if you want.  Only $5, plus shipping and handling.

[For the purpose of this post, "famous" is loosely defined as "heard my voice on the radio, recorded it on my kickass iPhone, and played it later for my friend LB who said I can totally count this as my productive activity for the day. ]

Dear Fraggle

In case you didn't get the memo, I FINALLY gave birth to my tiny human a few weeks ago.  (Wait, has it been four weeks already? What the hell? Is she driving yet? Has she graduated?  Is she married?)

Although I have been saving a ton of blog material in this pathetic messy brain of mine, who knows if I'll ever find time/energy to expel it from my mind onto the interwebs.

So, I'll start with this one post, this one thing I've wanted to write for a long, long time - a letter to my darling daughter.

********

Dear Fraggle,

My god, I had no idea having you would be like this.  Nobody could have prepared me for it.  It doesn't seem to matter what people said or how they tried to warn me - the overwhelming nature of growing, birthing, and loving you has been, well, indescribable.

Sure, your life inside me was tricky for both of us, and for Hubby too, but my god I loved you.  I talked to you all the time, I sang you "I Will" by The Beatles on a daily basis, I imagined what you looked like, I adored when you moved inside me, and, above all, I worried about you pretty much every minute of every day.

And then you came out, in a flurry of (holy super painful) labour and only a few quick pushes. You came out and the nurse plopped you on my chest, and all I could really think was "wow, she's bigger than I thought she was."  Seven pounds eight ounces, with the cutest little face and ohmygosh so much long dark hair.  And those big brown eyes looking up at me.  And then Daddy cut your cord and before I knew it we were parents.

That first week was, (well, Fraggle dear, I'm always going to be honest with you) one of the hardest things we've ever done. Trying to feed you, laying crooked in a hospital bed opening my eyes every 5 minutes to look at you through that clear plastic bassinet, coming home and camping out in a not-dark-enough and anxiety-cloaked bedroom for days on end trying to figure out how the heck to keep you safe.

But then, then there was a light.  Slowly, very slowly, some weird normalcy began to emerge unlike any "normal" I have ever known.  A new normal where nothing else in the world matters as much as you do, and where Hubby and I truly rely on each other in a way we never had before, finding a way to exist as your parents rather than whoever those two fools had been beforehand.  I woke up the other night wondering, where is the grown up that is supposed to be caring for this child?

Now, honey, you'll be four weeks old on Monday.  I have no idea where this time has gone, or how I managed to survive it, but I'm starting to see what everyone was trying to tell me.  It was worth it.  All of it.  Because you are the most lovely, sweetest little baby known to humanity and it aches my heart how much I love you.  You are the most beautiful thing I've ever done. It kills me when you cry, and it warms me when your eyes gaze at mine.  And this week, when I was feeding you, you held my hand...

I love everything about you.  I love your jazz hands (aka newborn reflex), and your "ET phone home" (aka burping bliss), and even your giggle-cries (like Dick Van Dyke floating on the ceiling in Mary Poppins) and your monkey scream (which sometimes sounds more like a Michael Jackson "Ah hoo hoo").  I've watched your hair lighten, and watched your eyes shift from dark brown, to a deep sea blue that I can't describe, to now a grey blue that mesmerizes me, just like Hubby's.

I promise, no matter what, I will keep watching.  Be patient with me, though I'm not perfect, not even close.  But I will always do my best.  I will be there, for everything, all the time. I will support you, no matter what, without judgement.  I will hold your hand, and teach you things, and take you places, and adore you, unconditionally, forevermore.

Love always,
Mom