Dear Reese,
I feel like I’m spinning fifteen plates badly, some are cracking at my feet, but then there’s you: exploring the SS Kids Boat at Troup Park, knowing how to go up stairs and down the slide, going back and forth between me and MorMor for hugs.
I read to you while you’re in the bath tonight — we’ve been reading a book of Nordic folktales, but took a break on the last, long story of the book. You kept telling me to stop in recent weeks, and I don’t blame you because I also have no idea what is going on. But I’m determined we finish this whole book, so I read a couple of pages tonight, confused as ever, until you tell me we’re all done.
I find my mind wandering to all the things I need to do as I carry you through your routine — and sure enough after you go to bed I sit at the kitchen counter and knock out some tasks on my laptop before anything else — but I appreciate the presense I need when I read you a story or try to wrangle you into a diaper and then pajamas.
When I turn off the lights and sing to you “Today” it’s impossible not to feel grateful for every bit of our life together.
Love,
Mama