Dearest Lulu, an apology.

You are 1 year old, and I am clearly doing something very right. You are happy, healthy, and charming-as-hell.
I have to admit, I don't remember a lot of the details of the past year. Most weeks went by without the celebration that each and every one of your accomplishments deserved. In fact, a lot of the time I felt relieved when you went to sleep. It turns out that even having the best kid ever is exhausting. I had no idea that I could devote that much of my brain to worrying, yet still function (fairly) normally. I literally worried most of the time, and in ways that completely contradicted each other. I worried that you ate too much, not enough, the wrong stuff, that I was too anal about what you ate. I worried that I was doing it all wrong, that your Dad was doing it right, that I as too controlling, that I wasn't consistent. Somehow through all my worrying and second-guessing, you managed to flourish. Because of us/ despite us? I am still a work-in-progress, probably will always be. I'm sure I'm going to make at least 1 or 2 more mistakes between now and your 18th birthday. Thanks for being so cool about it, that really means a lot. I'll do better next year, be more organized, write in your baby book, wash AND fold AND put away your clothes on a regular basis. Somehow I'll get you to sleep through the night, feed and bathe yourself and recite "The Raven" in it's entirety. So, there's that to look forward to. Anyway, sorry about everything.