525,600 minutes.

What a crazy, loopy, lovey, sleepy, nutty, wonderful, amazing year it has been.

One year ago, the culmination of nine months of worrying, crying, fretting, and anxiously awaiting finally came to head as my water broke while I was sitting on the couch eating popcorn and dicking around on the computer. What would follow would be 24 hours of labor, drug-induced Cheez-It begging, and swearing that would make a sailor blush. But the end result was beautiful.

That's when you were born, my sweet, beautiful Elaine Louise.

You came into the world at 4:19 p.m. on February 15, 2008, a Friday. When you were born, you didn't cry at first, which while it scared the shit out of me (well, pushing during labor had taken care of the majority of that issue), it just served as a testament to who you would become: cautious and intelligent, content to take the world around you in before making your screaming, joyous conclusions.

The nurses put you on my chest, still warm and gooey and covered in things I care to not think about, and the first thing your father said was, "Look at that little butt! It looks like a Punkin! Heya Punkin Butt! Heya Punky!"


And so you became Punky.

I had planned on calling you Lainey, but Punky you became and Punky you remain today.

In that split second, I knew I had met the love of my life. Your dad's alright sometimes but you, my little lovey, were what love at first sight is all about.

The first months were a blur of cold, sleepless nights and frustrations. I was young, had no experience with children or babies, and didn't really know what I was doing. We were both sort of playing it by ear. Thanks for sticking with me -- I'm sure I was probably a huge, clueless pain in the ass, and motherhood's not exactly one of those things where you can stand stammering in front of the paper copier, mumbling things about, "I'm new here, I didn't know any better." Thankfully, you survived, and I haven't been reported to Child Protective Services yet -- mostly because this blog is anonymous.


Seasons changed, days turned into months, and you morphed from this screaming tiny blob (sorry, I loved you, but that's what you were). Even from an early age, you were opinionated and outspoken. Things were -- and have been -- done on your terms. You were dropped a couple times. You tried foods. You traveled places.

No matter where I went, I was stopped by complete strangers who marveled and commented on what a beautiful baby you were (and are). For reasons I still don't know if I understand, you are the result of some amazing genetic lottery in which you are spectacularly beautiful. You have your father's dark brown eyes and smile, set on my bone structure, with a sparse topping of light brown hair. You're beautiful. When you smile. When you sleep. When you cry. When you're you. You are my beautiful, wonderful, perfect baby girl.


Not all parts of you are beautiful, however.

The older you got, the more fun you became. Always sunny and cheerful and ready for adventures, carrying your beloved Sophie Bear everywhere. You loved car rides, and I loved them even more, mostly because they put you to sleep. Now you love to look out the window, singing your own songs and talking in your Nelle-like personal language, commenting on the world around you as it unfolds. In one short year, you've become my best friend, favorite travel buddy, naptime cuddle partner and exercise catalyst. (Because seriously, kiddo, you're exhausting some days.)


You're smart. God, you're smart. You ooze intelligence in ways that would make a lesser mother start hatching plans for publicity tours and prodigy classes. You're fiercely independent, content to play by yourself rather than with anyone who attempts to join in. But in the same breath, you love to bring books up to anyone in your vicinity, hand them to us, and cuddle up on our laps, eager to be read to. You LOVE to be read to. Whether it's Clifford the Big Red Dog, Thomas the Tank Engine, or the latest issue of Star (sorry, Mommy needs her celebrity tabloids), it doesn't matter to you. You cuddle and drift off listening to me or your dad reading about Thomas passing by the farm, or the latest Lindsay Lohan/Samantha Ronson gossip. Because that's really what's important.


It was a strange and crazy adventure, the story of how you came to be and how you came to us. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was rough, but the end result is you, and us. And there are no words to ever tell you how much I love you, my lovey-dovey, my Punky Pie, my Pickle. The world is a strange and scary place right now, but inside our warm little house, there is so much love that you have created and reverberate and echo. You are the greatest thing I have ever done, the biggest adventure I have ever embarked on in my life.

Happy Birthday, Elaine. I love you forever and always, to the moon and back.