Letters to Charlotte: Progress

Dear Charlotte Amalie,

Last night, your nurse told me how you were trying so hard to make the "la-la-la" sound. You would go through the motions, desperately willing your body to function as your mind wished it would.

Yesterday, this was not possible.

This morning, out of the corner of my eye, I watched you effortlessly roll from your back to your front, push yourself up and practically fly into the crawling position.

Last week, this was not possible.

Right now, you are precariously perched on your feet, in a stance that cannot be comfortable. You are holding yourself up, leaning over Caleb's yellow dump truck, attempting to laugh at the laws of physics, as you recklessly lunge towards the wheels. Spinning them around and around, you throw your head back and laugh. Laugh at the world, baby girl, laugh as much as you can.

Last month, this was not possible.

Tonight, I will place you in your crib. In your own home, I will lay you down for a night of sleep and slumber. I will attach your monitors and push medicine through your feeding tubes. I will swaddle you as you smile and kick your legs. You're the only baby I know who is so ecstatic to be swaddled. I will sing you a song, and then walk into the kitchen to wash the dishes. When I finish, I will walk back to you, and find you sleeping. I will gently place your BiPAP over your face, and I will stand frozen for a moment, mesmerized by your image; hypnotized by your presence.


Last year, this was not possible.


Baby girl, if you are certain of nothing in this life, be certain of this:

Anything, anything at all, is possible. 

And no one can ever count you out.

All my love,
Mama