One.

For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of becoming a mother.  When I was young, I had dozens of baby dolls, all of whom had names, and I spent hours each day mothering them.  When I outgrew the doll stage, I compiled lists of suitable names for my future children (Henry was not on the list, FYI, but most of the names had an early-1990s charm--think Mariah--so that's not too surprising).  And then, as soon as I was old enough, I began babysitting.  But my greatest desire was always to have a baby to call my own.

One year ago today, my dream came true when Henry Cole entered the world.
 
But even on June 26, 2012, I didn't know that being a mother to Henry would be so much better than anything I could have ever dreamed or imagined it would be.

Several people have asked me over this past year whether I "love" motherhood.  And, honestly, the first time this question was posed, it threw me for a loop.  I simply can't imagine not being in love with motherhood.  It brings me more joy, by far, than anything else in the world.  Even during the early days of no sleep and round-the-clock feedings, and despite the fact that I'll probably never sleep past 8:00 a.m. again.  Watching Henry grow and develop into a toddler with a cheerful, easygoing, determined, vivacious personality.  Seeing Mark, the man who had never once changed a diaper or even held a baby prior to Henry's birth, become a devoted, instinctive, wonderful father.  Hearing my son say "mama" and realizing that he actually connects the word with me.  It's all I could have possibly dreamed of, and more.

So thank you, Henry, for making me a mama.  Happy first birthday.  We love you more than you will ever know.