Two significant milestones have transpired in the past week, not including Cass snagging a pair of fashionably large sun shades. Clearly, our little hipster-in-waiting has his finger on the pulse of the outrageously au courant.

1. He is speaking real words. As in, Mama. I’m having a hard time convincing people (namely, Ryan) of this particular advancement, because he refuses to flaunt his new word in public. I’ve tried to encourage him—There’s no shame in being a mama’s boy, I say, nudging him to let it fly. Zip. I start to wonder if I made the whole thing up—repeatedly—but as soon as I’m dangerously close to caving (maybe he was just mumbling nonsense), Cass tosses it out there again, casually and in confidence, clear as a cloudless day. Mama, with his arms around my neck. Mama, grabbing the backs of my knees. Mama. Mama, with no one else to hear but me. I hatch a plan to covertly record him with my phone, download it to my iPod, so I can torment Ryan with it on car trips.

On the heels of Mama, his repertoire expanded to include Up (with a cute little hand motion) and Uh, which is the first part of Uh-Oh (also with a cute little hand motion).

2. Cass started daycare. Today was his first day. Ryan and I both dropped him off. I vowed to retain control of my emotions, unlike the day last week I took Cass to investigate the facility and cried five times. Or sobbed. And not because I didn't love it--the caregivers are as kind and patient as I could ever hope, and the program grows into a wonderful montessori preschool for tots. In my defense, I was weaning and my hormones were going totally bananas. Today, a marked improvement, I had a tiny (very controlled, very brief) cry spell after leaving him in the gated room, other toddlers buzzing around with push toys and plastic vacuum cleaners, in no particular pattern, having more fun than they’d likely be having at home in their living rooms. You went to daycare, and you’re fine. I know he’ll be fine, and in time, he might not even cry when I drop him off, forcing my stomach inside-out like an umbrella in a windstorm. With hail! And lightening, too. All in my stomach.

Just two days a week, not even a full day. But I felt woozy anyway, and already, after just one half-day, I started to get all teary-nostalgic about our glorious year together as MamaCass (our version of Brangelina). The times I wanted to swaddle him up and leave him on my neighbor’s doorstep in a wicker basket* dimming, dimming, as the rare moments when everything was perfect, peaceful and ridiculously sublime shining brighter, brighter, a postcard vignette of shared naps, raspberry blowing and open-mouth kisses. Our memories are kind and generous, and I’m thankful for that, but sometimes reality would make things a little easier.

End of his first day: he refused to eat his lunch, and he cried off and on throughout. A little clingy, they said, He’s still getting used to us. Luckily, my inner response to that isn't: I don't want him to get used to you! I just want him to love me! Only me! Because I'm his Mama, and he said my name first, and you can't take that away from me! I harbor no resentment against daycare. I want him to love these wonderful ladies and play and laugh and learn from others. I want him to be happy there and not miss me for a minute (well, maybe just for a minute). I know he will be fine.

And showing signs of that already: he loved the big buggy and giggled and waved like the late Diana Princess of Wales at all the people they passed. He even took a nap--a shocking event, considering my tormented nap routine lately.

He will be just fine.

*Not for keeps; just so I could make a deadline without gross amounts of anxiety once in awhile. I might squeeze in a pilates video and a few chapters of one of the 20 partly read books on my bedside table. But I’d claim him afterwards, I would.

One Year and One Week

Cass is one year old. He has been one for one week, after a party (see pics) with the hat he wore more than I thought he would and the cake he wanted nothing to do with. We’ve turned the corner, no longer seeing the baby in the rearview mirror getting smaller and smaller, Cass growing bigger and bigger.

I cannot help but remember one year ago, when he was only one week old. Stuck somewhere between the dueling emotions of love and fear, equally overwhelming, I wondered how I would make it through the next day, the next hour, with no sleep and even less confidence, my bed-ridden body still throbbing sore from the experience of giving birth. I remember how Cass still sounded foreign on my tongue, after calling him The Bean for nine months. My new flat belly felt hollow, and Cass didn’t yet feel comfortable in my arms.

Those first few weeks, I scribbled notes about when he ate, for how long and on what breast. I took maniacal care to write down every detail about his bowel movements and sleep schedule, and cried when I forgot. It seemed like the only thing I could do—record his every action (or non-action). I felt like an untrained scientist, monitoring the Earth’s phenomena, trying to recognize patterns within the data sent by geostationary satellite. But all it ever did was make me realize how little control we had. Ryan started calling him Botcha Galoop. It never made any sense to me, but I humored him anyway. Nothing made any sense to me then.

His nicknames continued, even if they lasted only an afternoon, as he grew and developed—at a rate that now seems impossibly fast. When we swaddled him during that first month, he looked just like a little bug—with bulging eyes and skinny, uncoordinated limbs, herky-jerky with movement. We called him Bug or Buggy or even Bugaboo (which is something Ryan called me when we first met, long before anyone had a stroller of the same name). I also called him Bunny from time to time, because his new brown hair was coming in soft like bunny pelt. And it rolled off my tongue, as I caressed his soft skin and fuzzy head, like he was my little pet. I could run my hand over that skin for hours, without being any less surprised by its silkiness each time.

Two nicknames I cannot quite explain: Sweet Pickle and Babykins. But at the time, they seemed to fit him, all baby food, activity blankets and gummy smiles.

Little Loverpants came when he learned to wrap his little arms around my neck—kind of like a hug, but needier—and I had to pull them off like stickers. Little Professor when he started paying attention to books, rapt by the sound of my voice, no matter what I was saying. These days he’s too impatient, too busy, to make it through the same book twice.

And then, always in circulation: Casserole, Casanova, Cassiopeia, Cassie, Cass Man, Cassius, Cassmatic.

These days, I call him Cass mostly. His name fits him—the little toddler, whose personality has grown into the curl of the C and the Double-S. We play, and he understands what it means to hide and then seek. Kind of. He doesn’t really like the seek part. He laughs, and knows when he’s being funny. He imitates, blowing on the tulips instead of smelling. He blew on his peas last night, just like Ryan did. He kisses and hugs. He rubs banana in his hair, making it stick out like one of those trendy kid hairstyles in magazines. This spring, neighbors started calling him Nature Boy, because he prefers sticks and stones and mulch and dandelions to blocks and books and plastic anything. This is just Cass. He wants to be outside all day, and again after dinner, commanding the sidewalk, arms outstretched with whatever he can pull from the flower garden. He earned the first of many skinned knees today, crying until he realized there was a rock beside his hand that he could pick up and fondle and carry around like a trophy. He pulls on grass and eats dirt. He waves at people and cars driving by, stray cats. He laughs at anyone who smiles in his general direction.

At night, he smells pungent, like dirty hands and sour toddler sweat and cheerios. The baby scent, light and fragile, is long gone. Sometimes I get a whiff of it, lingering, but it never reminds me of Cass, the one-week-old version of the boy I now know. And love more than I ever knew I could.

Happy Birthday, Cass.

Say Uncle

I spent the weekend in Chicago for my best childhood friend’s wedding, and as the maid of honor (not matron, thank you), I had a bride to attend to most of the days and all of the evenings. My dear younger brother drove in with his girlfriend (now my very good friend), from Cleveland to watch Cass in Chicago, while we prepared for and celebrated the big event. Perhaps I was predisposed to being emotional (weddings and childhood friendships will do that to you), but this struck me as a particularly poignant act of kindness. I broke out in chills thinking about the little boy I used to hoist up into the lazy boy like my own little rag doll, now all grown up, rocking my own baby boy to a quiet sleep, head resting against his uncle's shoulder while Colin sings the Irish lullaby of my Dad’s fathering days, the one we fell asleep to together more nights than I can recall.

But the night before leaving, my mom-stincts kicked in, and I did what I do best, always very badly. I worried. I worried about whether Colin would know what to do if Cass cried when Colin changed his diaper or if he wouldn’t eat or that Colin wouldn’t cut the pieces of cantaloupe small enough, and Cass might choke on one. And maybe Colin wouldn’t react quickly enough, dipping him upside down, so that the slippery piece of cantaloupe could come back out the way it went in. I worried that Cass would miss me, and Colin wouldn’t be able to calm him down. I worried that Colin would get frustrated or nervous, or that Cass might get nervous or frustrated. I didn’t try to worry. I didn’t sit around, dreaming up the most unlikely scenarios that could unfold, but they played across a filmstrip in my head anyway, like a movie I couldn’t pause. So I typed out a way-too-long email about Cass’ eating schedule, sleep routine and play preferences in way too much detail. And I felt better.

It took only a few seconds of seeing Colin and Kelly with my son to render my worry-fueled instructions utterly ridiculous. Cass reached for Kelly immediately, and laughed his funny little chuckle in Colin’s face. He smiled and ran around, tickled by their doting. They took him on evening strolls, spoiled him with wooden maracas and a monchichi toy, and held him tightly on the balcony so he could wave to all the cars, people and bikes that went by. When we finally came home Saturday night, finding Colin and Kelly sacked out asleep on the couch, they reminded me of Ryan and I, exhausted after a full day of taking care of Cass. Peaceful. They said they had a glorious time, and glowed even, prattling on about all his adorable mannerisms, funny moments, how much soup he ate for dinner and how they tamed his diaper-changing refusals (answer: TV). I couldn’t have been happier.

This morning, I found a file saved on my computer, left on my desktop by Colin and Kelly. Maybe they worked on it after Cass went to sleep, charmed by his tired eyes and sweet, sleepy disposition. The photo was one I took a month earlier, one morning in his pajamas. Around the border, they wrote this:

Cass is the most beautiful and smartest baby in the world. He loves his mommy. He loves his daddy. He can’t wait to grow up and love humanity. He will be legendary. Cass loves all of his grandparents. He loves toys. He has style. He loves sunshine and squirrels. He likes avocados. He loves to giggle. He has compassion.

There are only a few people in the world who love your children almost as much as you do. Profoundly. To those people you are eternally bonded—in a way that surpasses even the deep sibling bond of a shared childhood. A relationship you thought could not possibly be stronger. It made me realize I could not wait to have another baby, even when I’m worried and stressed and busier than I’ve ever been, because Cass deserves to have a brother or sister, who will one day grow up to make him as happy as Colin makes me.