Dear Warner,
It’s nearly 10pm at night. Kevin is working, and you’re upstairs in your green dinasaur jammies, fast asleep in your crib. Like every other night for the past year, I will go into your room tonight to watch you sleep before I go to bed. I’ll watch your tiny chest rise and fall as you make the sweetest breathing sounds I’ve ever heard. I’ll study your face and small body, trying to memorize all of your features because I know they’ll change all too soon. In the dim light produced by your frog night-light, I’ll watch you for a few moments while thanking God that He allowed me to be your mother.
I can’t believe you are going to be one year old in a few days. This year has gone by too quickly, which probably means each subsequent year will be no different. It’s funny, because although your first year of life has flashed by, I can hardly remember life without you. I read this quote in a book recently – a mother is talking about her two year-old daughter: “I have only known her for two years. But if you took every memory, every moment, if you stretched them end to end – they’d reach forever”. That’s exactly how I feel about you.
You were born at a very difficult time in my life, as your Aunt Meredith was sick with cancer and her battle was deeply affecting all of our family. I still believe you were born over 5 weeks early because I was carrying so much stress – emotionally and physically – and it therefore put you in distress. In any event, God’s timing for your arrival couldn’t have been more perfect. I’ll never forget driving to the hospital on Thursday, October 18th, to be monitored after you failed a fetal stress test. I had no idea you’d be born the following day. At the hospital, each time your heart rate dropped I’d say (aloud) “come on, buddy (we hadn’t officially decided that Warner would be your name yet), come on, stay with me”. I was so scared that we’d lose you before we even met you. A few days after you were born, I sat in a rocking chair in the back of the NICU in the middle of the night, holding you against my chest, and I wept. I wept with thanksgiving to God for you, I wept at the thought of losing you, and I wept knowing my sister was going to die soon and she’d never get the chance to do what I was doing at that moment with her own child.
You were slow to give us your first smile. Being the neurotic mother that I am, I was convinced you were Autistic, since you didn’t hit the “smile milestone” right on time. Looking back it’s funny that you held out on us for so long, because now it seems that all you do is smile. I pray this continues for the rest of your life, and that your smile is deep and genuine like it is today.
It’s amazing to me that you have already begun to develop a personality at such a young age, too. You are happy, have a sense of humor (you think I’m hillarious by the way, which I’m assuming I should enjoy while it lasts), are very particular about how you play with your toys, and very serious when you’re trying to do something. You are also quite persistent and hard-headed, which I know comes from both your father and me. You still don’t sleep consistently through the night, and when you do wake up to cry you can last forever, or so it seems. You also understand the word “no”, but rarely obey it. I know this is more a function of your age rather than your personality, or at least I hope it is. I can’t wait to watch as your personality and character continue to unfold.
I love you so much, Warner. I think until you have children of your own you won’t fully understand the depth of my love for you – at least that’s how it was for me. You are a precious gift from God and I pray for the day you come to know Him as your Lord and savior. Thanks for being such a good little boy. I can’t wait for all that lies ahead.
Love,
Mom
Warner fell outside on the deck today and busted his lip. You can't see it that well from the pictures, but he's pretty banged up on his chin and bottom lip. 
I of course freaked out and cried right along with Warner. He bled for a while but it seems to be healing okay. I called the pediatrician (imagine that) and they told me they don't put stitches inside mouths, so I guess there isn't anything we can do. In the meantime, I'm thinking about making a sign for Warner that reads: "My mother does not abuse me, I'm just learning to walk".
