So, he’s one.

Crazy, right?

To think that this time last year, I was, apparently, screaming my head off. (I do not remember this.  The blog does not remember this.  I say it didn’t happen.  Dan says differently.  Tomaytoe, tomahtoe, I say.)

Anyway, he’s one now.  A whole year has passed. 

When I think about how far we’ve come and what we’ve OVERcome to get here, I can’t help but feel a little triumphant.  I mean, I GAVE UP DAIRY FOR SEVEN MONTHS, y’all!  We survived reflux and colic and that damned dairy allergy.  After he refused to nurse, I chained myself to a pump five to six times a day.  I battled a MAJOR case of Mommy-guilt when I decided to stopping breastfeeding (but that first bite of cheesy goodness known as Kasey’s hashbrown casserole was enough to let me know I’d made the right choice.)

We have gone from not sleeping. Ever. To sleeping through the night to…wait…we’re back to not sleeping through the night.  So that’s not exactly a win.  If he doesn’t start sleeping through the night again soon, I’m going to need to invest in an espresso machine because the coffee isn’t cutting it anymore.

He’s walking and speaking baby jabber.  And he clicks like he’s speaking some strange tribal baby language.  And did I mention he’s walking?  I’m pretty sure climbing is coming next.  He’s attempting to climb onto his Learn-n-Groove table and various other toys.  And he’d like to nose-dive off of all pieces of furniture if only it weren’t for those pesky PARENTS stopping him from making trips to the ER having fun.

We’ve weathered a few ear infections and a case of projectile vomiting followed by a pajama-leg full of poop and a 3am bath.  We’ve changed more diapers than I can count.  My laundry has tripled, just with the addition of this (relatively) tiny little thing.

And no matter how hard or scary this has been, or how anxious and thankful for anti-depressants I have become, I wouldn’t change it.  (OKAY THAT’S A LIE.  I’d TOTALLY change that sleeping thing.  In a heartbeat.)  I should say I’d do it all over again.  Because I would. 

As we begin to look at tax-sheltered college savings accounts, I know that my days of 2am baby snuggles are numbered.  At some point, he won’t WANT me to hold him anymore.  Someday, he’s going to be the boy standing in the Sears parking lot looking longingly at his parents as they drive away after moving him into his very first college apartment and buying him a hammer and two screwdrivers (one Phillips, one flathead.  And yes, my parents and I parted ways in the Sears parking lot in Athens.)

But I might be getting just a teensy bit ahead of myself. 

I have enjoyed watching him hit every milestone.  I have agonized over those milestones, too.  And I think it’s normal that I’ve agonized.  I think that’s the one thing that I’ve done right.  I’ve proven, through my worry, that I care.  I will never stop caring.  I will never stop worrying.  I will never stop hoping that I’ve done the best I could for him. 

I love him.  More than I ever thought possible. More than I can ever put into words.  More than I can ever hope to be loved in return if I lived a thousand lifetimes. 

And now I’m crying all over my keyboard because my heart is so full of love for this little person that Dan and I created who is thriving and learning and growing more and more every day.