Letters to Dannica: Babbling, Grabbing, and Scooching (Month 5)

Dear Dannica,

You’ve been spending the last month enjoying your daddy's company as he takes paternity leave to tend to you. A lot of your day is spent sleeping and getting bottle-fed.

The holidays came upon us, and you had fun attending your brother’s Christmas party at his daycare, just a little taste of what you have in store since you will soon go to the same daycare with him.

We went to lunches and dinners on both sides of the family for the holidays. You are very well behaved and for the most part, just observing and taking everything in.

 We experiment more with solid foods.

So far, you are liking the sweet purees such as sweet potatoes and squash. You are indecisive about applesauce and peas, but you hate sour peaches, making the biggest shocked Grinch face when you sample them. It took you a while to warm up to oatmeal cereal mixed with breastmilk, but some days you want extra helpings.

Your appetite for breastmilk has tapered off and even waned this month, and you take less that you used to, around 3-4 ounces per feeding, and more spaced out throughout the day.

You’ve taken to babbling a lot recently, namely saying “Babababa” when you want your daddy, “Emmmm” (Am in Vietnamese) when you want to be picked up, and “Bububu” (Bu in Vietnamese) when you want to suckle. You don’t always say the words with intent, but you are clearly starting to try to communicate your wants with us.

In the morning when you wake up, you are most fascinated with Luc, especially when he still lies sleeping, stalling to wake up for school. You call out to him, try to grab his face, or bat at him with your hands to try and wake him.

You are getting quite good at grabbing objects within your reach and often bring them to your mouth to taste and explore. Your favorite toys are the green O-ball that I use to help you grab and entice you to reach for and roll over; your teething giraffe; and Luc’s stuffed monkey, Jo-Jo.

You also love your bouncer. On days when you are in a good mood, you could stand in there and play with the activity centers for a long time. You’re quite proud of yourself when you press a single button and are rewarded with a cute jingle, thinking that you had successfully played all the notes to the song.

You’d often hold up your hand to examine, opening and closing your fingers to study the moving mechanisms. You can sit for short periods unpropped and unassisted, and you’d often lift your head and look around for us when you wake up from a nap.

You are starting to army-crawl by scooching, but you travel in reverse, which greatly amuses Mommy. I’d put you in the center of your floor mat, and you’d end up under one of our dining room chairs, looking around your new surroundings and peeking out like a little mouse.

 You have a very round face and a sweet, infectious smile that you are learning how to use to get your way (namely, to be picked up, as you are happiest when being held).

Days Go By and Still I Think of You

"You
Still a whisper on my lips
A feeling at my fingertips
That's pulling at my skin. . .

Days go by
And still I think of you
Days when I couldn't live my life without you"

--"Days Go By," Dirty Vegas

Dear Thi,

I was told when we picked out the font and design for your gravestone that white vinegar, straight up, sprayed from a squirt bottle and then buffed off the surface, is the best way to clean it. In the process of picking out a gravestone for you, your father and I decided to pre-purchase for us, too, so that we could eventually rest with you and see you again when our days are done. I remember the morbidity of it all, for no one wakes up in good health and at the prime of their lives thinking, "Gee, this looks like a good day to do a cemetery tour. Think I'll go ahead and buy my resting place."


I knelt in front of your (our) grave, buffing out dust and marks from the surface, tidying the succulent gardens that keep you company, cutting and arranging the bouquet of fresh flowers that I had bought that morning. It was Monday, December 30th, a day after your birthday, and throughout the weekend, I was wrought with guilt that I had been unable to visit you for over half a year. Your little sister Dannica had caught a cold, and around the busy holiday season, no one was available to watch her so that your father and I could pay you a quick visit together. No one has time to do favors for the dead. From our bedroom where I nursed Dannica and comforted her congested cries, I watched the play of sun and shadow in the garden, noting how the last of the autumn fruits hung rotted and bird-pecked on the bare branches with a few sad leaves clinging to them. I mourned the passing of the day, how it turned dark all too quickly. You must be able to travel anywhere you want to without a corporeal body left to limit you, but my heart broke as I imagined your spirit sitting near your gravestone, excited during the fresh morning, and then crying when the sun sank down and Mommy and Daddy hadn't been by at all to see you for so long, let alone on your birthday. I didn't want you to feel abandoned and forgotten now that we have your little sister, but wish you'd know that you have been more and more on my mind during this season.

On Monday, I returned to work on a day when a lot of other people took a long winter shutdown. I still felt a small sense of discombobulation after having taken such a long maternity leave for Dannica. I had to learn to navigate life again not tethered to her, my hands set free from often cradling a baby to fly across the keyboard and start making money again. I made a quick lunch of instant ramen, wolfed it down, and began the drive toward the Los Gatos hills, hell-bent on seeing you. Every year, the maintenance staff cleans the cemetery for upkeep, tossing old flowers and weathered memorabilia. It being so close to Cleaning Day, I couldn't bring you a new toy for them to take away. But I hope that you like the bright, cheery flowers that I brought, hope that you feel a mother's warm and gentle touch as she cleaned your headstone with loving care and ran her fingers across the etching of your name, such a small remnant of you on this earth.

I told you how Luc is such a loving big brother, how he would've been great to you, even though he is having a difficult year contending with emotions that are bigger than him. I told you that Dannica is such a good baby, as if she knows of our past struggles and is giving us grace. I told you how much I miss you, that I was sorry to have been so busy and occupied to visit you. Being close to you in the serene cemetery on a sweet and warm winter afternoon, with the sound of water gushing around us from the fountains, I felt a small sense of comfort that as with all children, you are quick to forgive when the present does you justice. You are my baby, but also bigger than me in a way and in a realm that I do not yet understand; you are not always a half-hour's physical drive away, but you exist across different planes, could be in multiple places at once, and you often come to visit me in a warm spring breeze, a pink cloud at sunset, a foggy morning near Christmastime.

When I lost you, I became a mother divided. I struggled to be present for Luc and to cherish my time with him, determined to not let the precious moments slip by. But sometimes, I couldn't help but go far away in my mind to visit you. He grows up and away from me all the time, more and more each day, and you seem to be arrested in babyhood for me to wish to hold and cuddle. When Dannica was born, I was divided again, three ways. Now I have an earth daughter just like I've always wanted, but it doesn't much mitigate the pain of your passing. I am busy all the time, one part a preschooler-boy mommy, one part a baby-girl mommy, one part a mommy who misses her angel baby, one part a career woman struggling to get back in the fast-paced tech world. There are now so many bits of me from this attention division, this mother-of-multiples mitosis, that there is very little of me left that I recognize. Most days, I sprint to do the essentials: eat, drink, shower, sleep. I shove sugar-loaded junk into my mouth and swallow food half-chewed for the sheer energy to keep going without the time to cook wholesome meals. My rundown home clothes are constantly soaked in baby spit-up or breastmilk leaked out due to having no time to pump. My hair is in a constant, loose ponytail or else falling to the floor in clumps from the drop in postpartum hormones. My hands are raw from scrubbing poop-stained clothes, washing endless dishes, and folding mountains of laundry, the nails chipped and misshapen from me not having time to clip them, even as I clip the 40 fingernails and toenails from my resistant children.

The winter solstice has passed, and we are moving more and more toward lengthier days and shorter nights. A friend put it into perspective: "It gets lighter by a minute a day. You wait 30 days, you have 30 extra minutes of daylight." I know there will be easier days ahead, once Luc's temperament works out so that not nearly everything makes him melt down and cry. That Dannica will require less care as she grows. Is it strange that I am sad that you do not get to experience these feelings? Defeat, despair, and bone-aching weariness, tempered by the awe of seeing your own children grow, the joy you get when you look upon their faces and gaze into their eyes. Flesh that you shaped, blood that you formed. I wonder what your children would have been like. I wonder if you would have chosen to have some, and your dad and I could marvel at how we'd slowly but inevitably morph into our own parents. What a trip it is to think about the passage of time. I pulled myself back to the present from a future that I could only dream of and picture you'd have. As I made the full circuit's drive to exit the cemetery from the newer plot where you rest to the older, moss-covered, wind-worn gravestones, I marvel at how many days have already gone by. And still, I think of you.

Luc's 4th Birthday

Dear Luc,

In just a few more days, you turn 4 years old, and today, we celebrate. I accidentally smushed your cake, which is an apt wrap-up of how this year went: perfect, until it’s an absolute, unfixable cluster.

 This past year, you tested and challenged us; you throw down with the best of them with temper tantrums, shrieking spells, talking back, and open defiance. You say, “Mama, you old,” “I lock Daddy outside,” “I don’t love Odin anymore cuz he stinks.” You cry when you have to get up, you cry when you have to go to sleep, and you are terrifically even more annoying and loud when we ask you to tone it down.

This past year, you learned to be a big brother and cope with our divided attention. You help out with the baby, entertaining her and making her laugh. You say, “Isn’t my baby beautiful?” “I picked these flowers for you, Mommy,” and “I want to cuddle and sleep with you tonight, Dadda.” You nestle up to me when I cry, put your small, warm hands on mine, and say, “That happens to me, too; I kiss you and later you feel better.” I was not raised to show emotions in public and am amazed that you have learned such empathy.

You are still car-crazy, still love cheese and fries. And yet you morph from a shy and clingy toddler—content to stand back and observe—to an outgoing, loquacious, and fun-loving preschooler. Sometimes I still see glimpses of my baby boy in your mannerisms and the cute childish phrases that you retain. But often I see a little boy growing up so fast, with an emerging personality that makes you so uniquely you, that we are getting to “meet” for the first time.

Happy 4th, my dear Luc. You were my first teacher at being a mother, and you continue to teach me still: grace under pressure, flexibility to adapt to multiple scenarios, and sheer grit to keep going when you think there’s nothing left in you.