For Jack on the eve of his 5 week birthday

First of all, don't think you'll always be celebrating birthdays every 5 weeks because that is going to get expensive. You should hear the list of stuff your brother wants for his second birthday. Your dad and I just innocently asked him what he wanted one day, and he rattled off his requests without hesitation-- with a little reproach, actually, as if to say What took you so long to ask me? (And if anyone out there knows where I can get an Elmo watch, please let me know!)

You probably already know this, but there are times when you cry, and no one can come get you. Sorry about that-- I really am. I know that you're fine and that you will be fine, even though you occasionally cry in your Pack n Play while Daddy and I finish washing the dishes really quick or keep putting the last few towels away or help your brother find his socks. Sometimes, I have to leave you for second or two so I can carry Harry-- he always needs carrying when your cries reach a fever pitch, and I think to myself that he'll remember if I tend to you first. You? Probably will have no memories of your infanthood. Unless you're wicked smart, which, let's face it, you probably will be.

Which brings me to the reason I'm writing: memories. So far, Daddy and I are doing a good job-- you have a "Dear Baby" book that started when we found out you were a boy and ends with your brand new footprints (just like Harry's). I am hard at work on a Hallmark scrapbook of your first year (just like I was for Harry), and we've already filled a pastel blue picture album with hundreds of shots of your tiny face (just like we did for Harry). The thing is, most of the pictures aren't just of you-- they're of you and Harry because there's never been a you without a Harry, so I just wanted to tell you a little about you.

You have six fat rolls on each thigh, and it's hard to keep them clean. You hate to have a dirty diaper, and you love the feeling of warm water running down your head. Your acne is worse on the left side of your face, and you sleep best swaddled and snuggled under my right arm. Sometimes at night, you'll hold a pacifier between your lips and suck it ferociously, with your eyelids at half mast and your hands balled into fists. You cross your feet at the ankles when you nurse, and you roll your mouth into a perfect "O" when you pee. Between the hours of 8 and 10 in the evening, you're only really comfortable on your tummy on top of Daddy-- and that's only after he's chugged a mini Miller Light, turned off all the lights, muffled his Obama-worshipping "news" channel, wrapped you in at least 2 blankets, and run laps around the living room. It's true you're going through a bit of an awkward phase right now with the acne and the cradle cap and the witching hour, but your toothless mouth smells sweetly like milk, and your breath is so warm against my cheek when you wrap your long fingers in my hair and hoist yourself toward my face.

In the hospital, you and I wore matching bracelets to prevent any movie-of-the-week type mix ups-- they were programmed to chime a lullaby when the two of us came back together after being apart more than 10 minutes. Except for the time you had a bath and a hearing test and the couple of times I showered, we were never away from each other for that long. Even if we had been separated, those bracelets weren't necessary for us . I knew you, Jack, when you were just a few hours old-- could look at your squishy bald head and your cloudy blue eyes and recognize you instantly, even if you were in a scrawny, chicken-winged, peely newborn baby line up.

We've been waiting for you, Jacky, before we even knew we were missing you.