Dear Reese,
Most of the news I read breaks my heart. Political murders. Plane crashes. Military parades. I see the signs from the protests — when cruelty becomes normal, compassion looks radical.
The world is wide — important and overwhelming — but we make it small together. We break out the carrier that hasn’t been used in half a year and practice having you face outwards while I vacuum the house. We take it to Sister Bay to watch the roofing of the goats parade, both of our first times. It is packed, but we find a clear sidewalk at the start of the one-block route.
It’s during your pre-nap snack when we get home that I read about the political murders in Minnesota, a state representative and her husband were killed. A state senator and his wife were badly injured. Your great-great-grandfather served as a state senator in Minnesota — Bjarne Edgar Grottum. He died before I was born, but it’s his golden ring I wear on my left hand.
I put my phone down and read you the rest of the fairytale from our Nordic Tales book — “The Widow’s Son”. It’s a wild ride of a story, and by the time I’m done, you’re ready to rest.
We go to a Retirement Party in the afternoon, and you eat cheese and strawberries from my paper plate. Everyone always wants to be friends with you. People love it when babies love them, I understand. A well-meaning woman talks about how beautiful you are and how your husband will be very lucky someday. We met five minutes ago, so I do not know her well enough to tell her to get that garbage expectation out of your ear.
A Taylor Swift lyric comes to mind: in your life, you'll do things greater than dating the boy on the football team.
She says that my sweetheart and I make beautiful babies. I don’t tell her, “What sweetheart?”. I do tell her that you’re adopted and that your Mama A is very beautiful too.
We agree that you are the greatest gift.
Love,
Mama