With a labor that began in the morning and ended at lunchtime, I never did walk outside on the day you were born. The curtains stayed drawn so you and I could rest. The midwives told me it was a dull, gray day with intermittent rain. That’s typical for northern England in late fall, but so wrong for you. The week we’ve just passed is more like the days I remember leading up to your birth, and more like you: sunny with the golden, brief light of autumn’s end; full of wind and bursts of wild weather; brilliantly blue skies giving way to fierce sunsets.
My heart is dancin’ to a November tune
And I hope that you hear it singing songs about you
You sparkle. You are effervescent, ebullient. You drive me absolutely barking mad, and even as I am howling “MOIRA! STAAAAAAAHPPPP!” I can’t help but hide my face so you won’t see me grin. You have two sides: the winsome charmer who makes friends with everyone, and the hooligan who will spit milk out in an arcing fountain if dinner is too quiet for your liking. You’re a pop song with a twist, snappy and catchy and fun until somewhere in the middle you get hit full in the chest with a devastating bass line.
I don’t know why I have to, but this man must move on
I love my time here, didn’t know ’til I was gone
You’ve moved fully into capital-T TWO, and there is so much that I miss and don’t miss. I don’t miss waking up 3-4 times a night and I just adore how hard you sleep and play now. I can count on you for a) a three-hour nap, b) a generally easy bed time (puncutated by the odd “Moira! Get back in bed!”) and c) to appear either at my bedside or in the doorway of the bathroom after launching from your bed like a jack-in-the-box. You don’t get out of bed in the morning; you spike the day like it was a volleyball. You have a pacifier now because you were biting, which is why I cheerfully forced you off the breast at 19 months, so every morning is punctuated by your constant low-level “mrrrrrrrrr mrrrrrrrr” engine-revving around your binky. You’re so full of life and full of a toddler’s curiosity. It’s wonderful, but cradling you in my lap on our flight back from Morocco, I realized that the only future guarantee I’d have of you falling asleep on me ever again was if you were sick. The little sleepy sack of newborn who happily conked out in my arms was gone; only a little bit of her remained, mostly in the smell in the fold of your neck. We–mostly I–were ready for you to stop nursing and to start sleeping without assistance, but I’ll never nurse another child again. You were the last.
And that’s why in the end, I loved every second of babyhood with you. Even the parts I hated, and even the parts at 3 a.m. that were so exhausting that I cried. I loved it because it goes so fast, and you were the last one. Now we’re moving on, and a full-blown child has taken that baby’s place.
November shadows shade November change
And wow, that child is powerful. Strong. Emotional. While your speech has come on considerably your consonants are still a bit muddled. When you get passionate and agitated–which is often–we can’t quite make you out, which leads to flat-on-the-floor explosions. You scream like you’re being cut with razor blades, and throw yourself into my arms. On the last occasion you did that, you visibly passed the point of no return–I could see that you knew this was ridiculous, and the panic in your eyes when you couldn’t rein it back in. Instead of scolding, I cradled you up and told you it was going to be okay, that everyone had Very Big Feelings sometimes. Once it was over, I asked if you felt better. “Uh huh!” you gulped. The twinkle–the gleam that lights your perfect, sparkling, cheeky eyes–was back.
November spells sweet memory / the season blue remains
And you are so cheeky. You’re sassy. And you’re usually quite remorseless. Just a few weeks ago you were my buddy at a charity event, and you snuck one of the lollipops meant for donors despite being told no, not for you. “Moira Autumn,” I said, in my best warning voice. “No lollipops.” In a flash you ripped off the wrapper and licked the pop, and fixed me with an enormous “Yeah? Tainted now! Whatcha gonna do?” grin that went ear-to-ear. You remind me of the last line of Good Omens, the line about Adam and how the apple was always worth the trouble you got into for eating it.
But despite the cheery defiance and the utterly irreverent grin you paste on your face when you’re busted in the act, you’re a born caretaker. No one is as tender to her baby dolls as you; nor as kind to the sad and sick as you are. You stop and consider people and you reach out to them. You try to make them feel better. You see what they need–a blankie, a hug, a fallen leaf, a few Cheerios–and you give.
Your yellow hair is like the sunlight, however sweet it shines
What an incredible combination, Moira. The potential and power of you, which is equal parts sass, sensitivity, defiance, and consideration wrapped up in a fiercely independent (“No, Mama! I DO!”) package, is breathtaking. You’re the power of a mid-November day: changeable, flashing, full of possibility and warmth and an errant chill. You and I share a birth month, and I never really thought highly of November before now. November isn’t an attractive month in a lot of places–bare trees and raw, cold rain. Maybe November just needed a Moira, because now all I see is warmth and color–I see the leaves in your red-gold hair and the power of an autumn sky in your brilliant dark-blue eyes. My not-so-babyish baby’s eyes, now two–my November blue.
Bit by the cold of December, I’m warm beside your smile
Thank you for being our little girl, Moira. Your radiance warms our lives. Life would be so unbearably dull without you. We adore and love you so.
(This structure again. I know. Sorry. I like it–helps me organize my thoughts. Italicized lines are from The Avett Brothers’ “November Blue.”)