It's late, Jude's gone upstairs to bed and I'm sitting in my man chair in the den, laptop in my lap, listening to music and trying to wrap my mind around the idea that in less than 12 hours, my sone will have been on this earth for one year. He was born at 11:11 a.m. on March 28, 2009, one year ago tomorrow.
Tonight, Jude made a birthday cake for him, along with cupcakes, for the birthday party we're hosting at our house tomorrow evening. As you can, she did a fantastic job, as always!
Sometimes I don't see how Jude does it, honestly. I try to help with John Patrick and I do, but the lion's share of the work falls on Jude at this stage of the game. She's an amazing mother, as I always knew she would be. On the rare occasion when I get home first, like yesterday, her face just lights up when she arrives home and sees him. Likewise, when he sees her, he smiles and starts kicking his feet and flailing his hands with excitement. John Patrick loves him mommy. So do I.
Glancing back through the blog tonight, I was amazed at how much has happened the past year. Without question, it's been the most eventful 365 days of my life. And, it absolutely flew by in the blink of an eye. I can't believe my son will turn one year old tomorrow! It's crazy, totally crazy. The scariest part, too, is that everyone tells me the older John Patrick gets, the faster time will pass by us.
Like it happened yesterday, I remember holding John Patrick in my arms minutes after he was born, clutching him to my chest, really, and walking with the nurse down the hall to the nursery, terrified I would drop him. I remember the nurses waking us up in our room at the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, wheeling him in, so Jude could breastfeed him. I remember bringing him home for the first time and setting the car seat down in the den, feeling like we had kidnapped him.
I remember putting him to bed the first night in the Pack-n-Play in our bedroom, panicked because all the pajamas we had were too big for him. I remember Jude and I switching side of the bed, so she could sleep next to him. I remember laying in bed, reading as I often do, but getting up five or six times to walk around our bed and check on him before I went to sleep.
I remember John Patrick's first bath, in his blue plastic bath tub, in the kitchen sink. I remember his first bath in the bathroom in the nursery, still in his plastic bath tub. I remember laughing uproariously when he bewildered Jude by pooping in the bath tub. I remember when he grew too big for his blue plastic bath tub and Jude started bathing him in a little blue bath chair, in the bath tub in our bedroom.
I remember, last spring, letting Jude nap for a couple of hours before the 11 p.m. feeding, John Patrick sleeping peacefully in my lap, in my man chair, as I watched the Lakers in the NBA playoffs. I remember how beautiful and peaceful it was to watch Jude breastfeed him, in our bed, in the mornings, the sun streaming in through our bedroom windows. I remember the sound of the breast pump in the mornings, too, droning rhythmically and waking me from a night's sleep.
I remember the sheer terror of moving John Patrick to the nursery after he was 10 weeks old, as Jude prepared to return to work. I remember waking from a fitful sleep, having dreamed something was wrong, throwing off the covers and staggering into the nursery, only to find him sleeping quietly. I remember, too, walking back into the bedroom, where Jude glared at me since I had woken her up and she knew she would be unable to fall asleep again.
I remember taking John Patrick outside on our front porch last spring and sitting with him on the swing, singing to him until he fell asleep. Jude watched us from the den, inside, while she ate dinner.
I remember walks, lots of walks, all over our neighborhood, grinning from ear to ear as I introduced my son to the neighborhood, my heart bursting with pride. I remember many walks to Bongo Java for coffee, John Patrick sleeping contentedly in his stroller all the while. I remember Saturday afternoon walks to the 12South Tap Room, where John Patrick slept in his stroller as I sipped a Yazoo Hefeweizen and read the latest issue of the New Yorker. I remember sitting outside at the Frothy Monkey, a coffee house on 12th Avenue, John Patrick sleeping in his stroller on a summer evening as I blogged on my laptop.
I remember holding John Patrick in the nursery, crying uncontrollably on his shoulder, my heart breaking for our friends Benton and Carrie Patton, after their 18-year old daughter, Elizabeth, died.
I remember many Sundays at St. Patrick's Catholic Church with Jude and John Patrick. Those are some of the best memories of all. I remember John Patrick's christening, which Father Eric Fowlkes graciously agreed to perform on his last Sunday at St. Patrick's. I remember walking outside with John Patrick and singing quietly to him, as he cried, the sounds of the congregation singing barely audible through the brick walls of our beautiful, venerable church.
I remember watching Jude feed John Patrick baby food for the first time. I remember many mornings after Jude went to work, music playing, as I fed John Patrick oatmeal cereal, apple sauce or some other baby fruit food. Without doubt, the best part of my day. I remember when Jude fed him real bananas for the first time. I remember when I fed him kiwi fruit for the first time.
I remember the first time I saw John Patrick clap, raise his arms to signify how big he is and the first time I saw him touch his tummy. I remember watching him turn the pages of his books for the first time. I remember his waving for the first time, at our friend Stephanie, as she worked behind the bar at Mirror Restaurant on 12th Avenue. I remember the first time he said "ma," "da," and "na na."
I will carry these memories, and too many more to mention, in my heart and mind for the rest of my life.
