Dear Reese,
I pick you up fifteen minutes early today and we head to Hatch before going home. I called MorMor to see if she wanted to meet us there and she was already on her way. Thursday is happy hour. Locals gather. Before you were born, we went nearly every week. Back then I had the Cherry Smash: a delightful drink with enough bourbon to go straight to your head. I haven’t had one since you were born.
But the illusion of a real drink tonight — they make a great mocktail, the Cherry Lime Fojito — after this busy week is something. It’s more so the outing itself, a little connection outside of work and home, that I crave, even if it’s only for forty-five minutes.
You look at my mom’s friends, Mary & Jim, with your classic stoicism while we get settled. You approach most people with skepticism right now. But then ten minutes in you’re giggling and wiggling and having a ball rolling around in my lap while you try to take off your socks. You blow raspberries in a long monologue that I’d give anything to translate.
Sometimes you get quiet with me though. Sitting in the bath, just looking at the wall. I feel myself retreat into my own thoughts too in moments where I should be all attention on you. I’ll be carrying you around the house and then realize I’m not talking to you at all, too consumed with the chatter in my head.
But in a world where I’ve evolved to always need stimulation (a podcast always on rather than moving through the quiet of my nightly routine) maybe I’m forgetting it’s okay to give both of us space to be quiet and think.
But it’s so nice, after I’ve drifted in my thoughts, to snap back into the moment with you. To sing you a song while I wrap you up in your bath towel and wrangle you into your pajamas. I brush your hair. I brush your teeth. I try to get a smile. It’s addictive.
Love,
Mama