Dear Reese,
We slide on black ice on the way to daycare, though at first I think the brakes have just given out. And the emergency brake. The glittering danger is completely invisible. We are lucky, the gravel shoulder gives us purchase before we go off the road. . . and down the slope and into the trees. It’s a steep and sudden enough drop that it doesn’t bear thinking about. Just ahead, a large piece of construction equipment has tilted off the road. Everyone is okay. You don’t make a peep, working on settling into your morning nap.
That is a lesson for when you’re older, Reese. If you are sliding on ice, stay calm, and guide the car to the side of the road.
By the time we drive home tonight, that stretch of road is covered in salt and sand.
We break routine and go Thyme for dinner with MorMor and Cappi and you power through it, despite being ready for a nap, and are mostly content to look around. At one point you sneeze and bang your head on the table. There’s this terrible few seconds of silence where your breath catches before you really let out a cry. I struggle to unbuckle you from the high chair so I can hug you and walk you to the front of the restaurant. Later, Cappi walks you around while I eat my Chicken Cherry Bomb Sandwich.
You are overtired and teething by the drive home and scream for the first few minutes until you fall asleep. During our routine tonight, you start crying a minute after I take you out of the bath and keep it up until you’re put down to sleep, drinking a few ounces of formula and taking some Tylenol on the way down. Poor girl. Your teachers said you were a little off today too. Too many teeth coming at once. I sing Disney songs to you and skip reading tonight.
You toss and turn on the monitor as I write then settle into stillness again. Your three night binkies are right in front of you. For a moment during bedtime I consider tucking myself in with you. We could sleep together in the queen bed in your room and you could curl into me as much as you want. My shoulder would be sore and my arm would fall asleep, but what would that matter?
I love you so much.
Love,
Mama