Dear Reese,
February’s used to make me sour. A dark month with too many dates I care to forget. It is still a dark, cold month, but that’s just icy roads and gray weather and our shared congestion. My calendar of all those collected dates, good and bad, will keep rewriting itself now that you’re here.
Maybe in the future, I’ll remember February as the month where we pick out Valentines, where we go to Madison to celebrate your cousin's birthday, where we vacation at the waterpark to feel a little warmth in the middle of a long Wisconsin winter.
Maybe, one year, I won’t remember those dates that used to hurt me. It’s been a while since they’ve drawn blood, but I have a long memory. I know how to conjure scenes that sting when they’re better left dulled to time. (But sometimes I like the sting, it reminds me that it mattered.)
I don’t know why I think about old Februarys tonight. I’m also thinking about how you didn’t eat as much today and seemed uncomfortable and unhappy this evening. One of these days I’ll blame teething and your front teeth will break through by morning, but more likely you’re tired after fewer naps than usual at daycare.
I sing a Taylor Swift lullaby and put you to bed, but this time you cry when I leave the room – a rare occurrence in our routine the past couple of months. Without turning the lights on, I go back in and rock you in the darkness. But there’s light, of course. The constellations Cappi painted glow on your ceiling – a mirror of my own bedroom when I was little.
We may not be in this home long enough for you to remember those stars, but I’ll repaint them for you if I need to. We have long winters; when we look up it’s nice to see some light.
Love,
Mama