Dear Reese,
This weekend we attended two farmers’ markets. I am full up on scented soap and ranch corn nuts. After walking around the Bailey’s Harbor market today, we stop at the playground, but it’s not long before you start to nod off while swinging with MorMor.
Your morning nap happens in the stroller while we walk the boardwalk at the Ridges, and we’re back at the playground later, where you meet a friend — a little boy named Henry who’s 6 days older than you and has just started to walk. You are fascinated by this. I chat with Henry’s mom while following you around the soft turf.
Cappi tells me, as we head back towards the car, that the playground is here because a little girl drowned in the marina back in the 90s. Her family created the park, across the street from the marina, in her name.
I look it up later — her name was Kendall Marie Weisgerber. She was 6 years old. The family used life insurance funds and donations to create the first park in the 90s. A new playground was installed a couple of years ago, spearheaded by Kari Bauman (Kendall’s sister).
But as we walk down the street, I look up at you smiling on top of Cappi’s shoulders and want to hold you tightly in my arms. It’s unimaginable. That family did so much good, brought so much joy to so many kids, through incredible loss and grief.
It’s hard sometimes, Reese, not to feel very afraid as a parent.
I do hold you close to me later. I get out the Mobi wrap and watch a YouTube tutorial on how to get you in it front-facing . . . while you’re already awkwardly kind of in it. You are very patient with me. But then we walk outside the cottage in the break from the rain, checking out the fence Cappi built for MorMor’s garden beds and walking through the backwoods and down to the water.
You lived in that Mobi wrap for the first four months. Then you got bigger, I went back to work, and the occasions were far and in between. Even though my lower back will pay for it, it feels good to have you strapped to my chest again. I’ll dig out the more structured carrier so you can be front-facing in it for hikes this summer.
After dinner at our home, I take you back outside, and you can’t stop saying “Mama!”. MorMor says you’re saying it more to get my attention; I think she’s right. You say it and look or point and try to lead me to the swing or to a tree. I am not sure I am getting you what you want, but you smile when you touch the red maple leaves after I detour across the lawn at your insistence.
I love you, darling.
Love,
Mama