Maybe a testament to an ever more sensitive heart, certain Christmas music always brings tears to my eyes. “O Holy Night” by Josh Groban, as I remember the last Christmas with my father; “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” by Neil Diamond, as I realize the unfathomable gift that was given to this earth by the life of Christ; and “Another Year Has Gone By” by Celine Dion, as I reflect on the years of growing into my own family, slow dancing with my husband on Christmas morning in our sunroom, and this year, imagining us, doing the same, with our newborn baby boy in our arms. With the gift of him in our life, more and more Christmas music elicits tears from me as I sense the miracle of experiencing his first Christmas with him, of the frailty of life, and the desperation of somehow getting time to inexplicably linger.

So my son, I write this entry as a memoir to your first Christmas.

You and I are a wonderful team that is well versed in adventure. Maybe not the adventure you will grow to know someday, climbing rock walls, conquering business, or following your heart into uncharted waters, but an adventure that everyday is new to you and I. I am busy raising both you and your mom. Growing into this role has taken the breath and the tears from me on many occasions. It all has been a greater challenge than I ever thought possible, just to keep up with our everyday needs. And so, in between that, when we are able to get out and discover the world together, it is an adventure like no other.

Yesterday we got up, both got baths, got dressed, ate and took care of the cats. We got in the car, went to Nana’s house and went Christmas shopping. You’ve never been Christmas shopping before and I’ve never been, with you. As we drive on the road, we both notice there are 100 more new things to look at out the window… the many more cars on the road, the holiday decorations, the sense of urgency in the travelers. As Nana sits in the back seat with you singing Christmas Carols, I keep one eye on your reaction from the rear view mirror, and one eye on the road – which happens to be about 2 eyes too little this time of year. I see you smile at her, and then I hear that laugh. And like a Christmas carol by candlelight on Christmas Eve, that laugh brings me to a new elation I never knew possible.

Last night, we went to Starbucks together and you knocked my mostly finished Egg Nog Latte out of my hands and onto the floor. I thought this was hysterical and so did you. These are our adventures.

Today, we are at your other grandparents house. On this blustery day, you go for a walk in your stroller with them. You are bundled up like a bear cub and on the verge of being upset because you are too hot – something I’ll never understand. Right before you go, you look over at me to see if it’s ok, and I smile, so happy to see you enjoying yourself with them, about to discover a new tree, or leaf, or reflection of the slow setting sun. And you smile back at me, that side smile that is the equivalent of how our hearts wink at one another. I melt, beaming inside of the joy that is simply you, and I go off to do my work and you go for your walk. These are our adventures.

Tonight we will go home and see Daddy. Daddy has been once again working hard, and will receive the paycheck of your enthusiasm when we arrive home. We will sit with him as we tell him of our adventures, describing every detail to him so he can experience it with us as we have imagined he did at the time. Your little body against mine will somehow warm all of me, and we will fall asleep together on the couch after dinner.

After one more late night feeding, I will embark on the delicate trek to the nursery that all new parents with a sleeping baby in their arms have attempted to master, and most likely I will think I would have been successful until you start to roll around in your crib, five minutes later, realizing you are no longer in my arms. With a slight amount of desperation, I will watch you do so for a few minutes, thinking that you will just realize you are happy anyway, and will send me to my room to go to sleep as well. When the three minutes go by that it takes me to realize that this is once again not a realistic possibility, I will pick you up and hug you close in your usual spot on my left shoulder.

The tears on your cheeks dry on my three layers of pajama tops, and after a burp or two, your head begins to get heavy on my arm and the little fist at the bottom of yours, finally releases. I sway back and forth and kiss the side of your head for the last time tonight, reveling in that new fuzzy hair that tickles my lips. My back aches as I put you slowly back down in your crib, maybe ten minutes later. Every ache has become the new stripe on my mom uniform, and I endure them proudly. You sigh, and despite the ridicules risk of waking you again, I pick up and place the palm of your hand over my eyelid, feeling your warmth, and your life, and of course I kiss you once more.

Tomorrow I will wake up and take a breath and begin the panic that still sets in at the revelation that I am a mom, a woman, a wife, a writer, a worker, a sister, a friend, a homemaker, a guardian. I will run around the house with the baby monitor at my side, constantly checking on you and trying to do the dishes, check my e-mail, feed the cats, and pump my breasts all at the same time. I run and I run for the 24 minutes that I have until you likely wake up and my mind races at what I have to do to prepare us both for the day.

I know you are really awake when you are not just shifting but your eyes open. I can see them on the monitor and I know my morning treadmill has come to a stop. I walk down the hall to your room, open it slowly as if I’m going to trick you that it’s not really me, and I lean over to see you. Just now, I remember that my lungs work and I can breathe again.

You SMILE at me.

And our adventure begins again.

Merry Christmas my son.

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