Dear Jack,

Today you are eight months old. At the beginning of this month, I was adrift in feelings of inadequacy, confusion, and a general, overwhelming fatigue. Here at the end, I still have all of those feelings at times, but I'm becoming more comfortable being your mom. I've been looking for some normalcy. It's actually been here all along, I just didn't recognize it. You are you; you are unique, and that is our normal.

When we first fall in love as young adults, it's easy to think that no one on the face of the earth has ever felt this way - that two people have never loved with a love like the one we feel in those early days. It's a glorious, fleeting isolation. As I have fallen in love with you since last June, I've had a very different feeling. When I look at you and (literally) see you learning and growing and needing me but bending toward independence, I can't help but think of the billions of people who have felt this way for eons. The way your Gram felt love for me. The way you (God willing) will feel about your child one day. It's a glorious connectedness. It's the club I didn't know I was longing to join.

This month started with a lot of sameness - a plateau (albeit brief) of cranky teethiness, rolling and scooching and frustration, and interrupted sleep. The month ends with a sprint! In the last two weeks, you have started crawling on all fours, belly off the floor. You've added more and more consonants - F, G, Z, N and sing them in a morning litany. You ate with gusto at the Superbowl party last weekend, bits of chicken and cheese. Tiny chunks of carrots and bread the next day. We moved you to your big car seat and you seem pleased to have a better view. You're still sweet and happy and silly and fully willing to turn on the charm and make folks happy. I still get a buzz from being your escort. You are gorgeous, with hair growing in thicker and bright blue eyes that rarely escape comment. Your cheeks are rosy and full. You look like (as my Grandma Katie would have said) "a picture postcard."

Just this week I passed a milestone of some note - 10 years with MS. When these anniversaries pass, I can't help but feel an overwhelming gratitude - just for life and limb, for ability, for breath. And this year, for you. What a gift you are, and what a gift I have been given to be able to mother you.

I love you. Mean it.

Mama