Dear Sprout,

Hi sweet baby. I wanted to write something just for you. I'm going to try to do this at least once a month, and it's been just over a month since we found out about you! And what a month it's been.

I was thinking as I was driving home tonight about all the things I want to tell you about this last month, the first full month of your life, and there was one memory I had forgotten about 'til tonight, a memory I want to make sure to record. On New Year's Eve, just hours before we woke to the joy of knowing you, we were coming home from a friend's house. It was late--almost 2 in the morning--and as we exited the tollroad, we realized there was a person working in the tollbooth. It makes sense--those booths have to be staffed 24 hours--but on New Year's Eve we felt especially bad for the person whose luck it had been to pull the night shift. Rather than speeding through the tolltag lane, we pulled into the other lane, the one that has the booth, and slowed to a stop. There was an old woman in there, with sweet, kind eyes and snaggly teeth. When she opened her window, we told her that we just wanted to wish her a very happy new year. She smiled and laughed--she seemed surprised. She gave a sweet, Southern "Well thank you!" We drove off, feeling warm and happy inside. A couple of days later, after we had stared at the possibility of a second line on the pregnancy test, after we had seen the word "pregnant" and screamed and danced, your dad admitted to me that he likes to think of that old woman as God, that he likes to believe that since we pulled over that night to wish a lonely old woman a happy new year, that is why we were blessed with your presence the very next day. It's a lovely idea, and one that I wanted you to hear.

While on the subject, I want you to know about your dad. While there are a trillion more reasons to love him than I could ever fit on this blog, I want you to know that he's been even more wonderful this last month than I could have imagined. He has been patient with my mood swings, with my exhaustion, with my every littlest desire. He treats me with such gentleness and care. He does the dishes and helps pick up my slack with our overflowing laundry bin. He lets me order chick flicks and then snuggles with me on the couch, not moving a muscle for hours, far beyond the point I know his arm has gone numb from the weight of my head. He gets into my side of the bed for me while I'm brushing my teeth so that it's warm when I jump in. He kisses me goodnight and good morning, and he does the same to you, laying gentle hands on my stomach and bending to kiss the skin and whisper to you softly. He is so excited about you. He carries your picture around in his wallet.

The picture is of the moment we first saw you. We had our first doctor's appointment last week, and we were so lucky to have an early ultrasound, so lucky to have the chance to see you so early. Up until that point you were an idea. At the appointment, we saw you nestled inside me, saw your fluttering heartbeat beating away. At some point in the weeks before, you went from a rapidly dividing group of cells to a beating heart, a person, our baby. A solid reality. After that it didn't feel right to call you Sprout anymore. You had sprouted! You were a big kid with a big kid heartbeat, and you deserved a big kid name. I had had a dream the night before that the ultrasound screen showed us that you were an astronaut floating around in space, with a space suit on and everything. Russian astronauts are called cosmonauts, so Cosmo you've become. It suits you. It makes you sound more grown-up.

But this letter was still written to Sprout, because even though you are Cosmo in our day-to-day conversations, you are still Sprout in a tiny part of my heart that will never change. Already you are growing up so quickly--you are now your own person, with your own beating heart. But part of me will always think of you as a tiny, new possibility, as something that relied on me completely.

We've started to share news of your existence, and everyone is so excited for us, for you. Your grandparents are going to spoil you to no end, which I know you will love. Your dad's parents have already started telling us all the things they want to teach you--art and music and the Russian language. Be patient with them--they are acting from an overabundance of love, from a culture where family is the penultimate. From grandparents and aunts and uncles to great-grandparents and great-aunts and great-uncles, the word is being spread. You are already the focus of so much love from all over the country.

We will get to see you again in three weeks! January dragged by so slowly, so interminably. I'm hoping that February will pass more quickly. I can't wait to see you again, see how much you've grown. Until then, every time I think of you, every time I touch my stomach, I picture your beating heart and love you to no end.

I hope you can feel it.

With adoration,
Mom