Happy Birthday, dearest Charlotte.

Dear Charlotte,

I might not be ready to celebrate the day of your birth, but I am ready to celebrate the life it created. Ready to celebrate your tiny toes, covered in adhesive from the pulse-ox you love to tear off each night. Ready to celebrate your sensitive hands, and your waxy ears. Ready to celebrate the feeding tube which keeps you nourished. Ready to celebrate the trach which keeps you breathing.

I’m ready to celebrate the milestones you’ve met. Ready to celebrate the people who have pushed you and prodded you and run along side you as you reached for and surpassed those milestones. Ready to celebrate the smiles, the laughs, and the giggles.

Charlotte, I celebrate you.

I celebrate the way you twist your hands together and scrunch up your nose when you want us to tickle your tummy. I celebrate the way you fling your head back in exasperation when you are all done with everyone and everything. I celebrate the way you pick yourself up and try again, every moment of every day.

I celebrate the raspy, noisy gurgle in your trach when you try to laugh. I celebrate the way you chuckle when Caleb does something funny. I even celebrate the way you smack Caleb in the face when he’s being annoying. (But stop that!) I celebrate the way you reach your arms out when you see your brother, hoping that he will come and give you a hug. I celebrate the way you come up smiling when he tackles you and smashes you to the floor.

I celebrate your tiny finger that point to everything: the picture of your father, the row of hats at the store, the birds in the sky. I celebrate the way that finger explores the world around you, discovering new possibilities. I celebrate the possibility of you some day appeasing your therapists and just doing the darn pincer grasp.

I celebrate your hips. I celebrate the strength it takes to overcome low tone and poor sensory input. I celebrate the way none of that matters to you. I celebrate the way you jump up and down in my arms as we walk downstairs. You love going downstairs. No one knows why.

I celebrate the kisses you bestow. I celebrate the moments of pure joy when you see yourself in the mirror. I celebrate every strand of hair that makes its way in front of your eyes.

I celebrate your right leg and the way it makes up for the strength the left leg lacks. I celebrate the way you are learning to bring both hands together, in perfect mid-line, just the way the therapists like. I celebrate the way you refuse to do anything the therapists ask, until you want to, of course.

I celebrate the people who love you, who have cheered you on, cried tears of anguish and of triumph, and anxiously waited for updates. I celebrate the way you bring people together. I celebrate the love you invoke.

I celebrate the reality you have taught us Charlotte Amalie.

Two years ago, I lay in a hospital room, recovering from a c-section, heavily drugged and feeling the side effects. I woke up sporadically throughout the night, begging my mind to clear, so that I might spend what few hours we had with you at your bedside.

17,531.6 hours later, I still wake each morning, wishing to spend my day with you and your brother.

I wouldn’t wish your journey on anyone. But I celebrate the lessons it has taught me. I celebrate them in your honor.

I live my life, hoping to someday become worthy of your efforts.

You celebrate everything, Charlotte. I celebrate the fact that you can.

Happy Birthday, dearest daughter. Happy Birthday.

Love,

Your Momma