Dear Reese,
Today, I get you a social security number. I drive to Green Bay and back to do it, after waiting a month for the appointment, and it’s finally done. Or it will be done when it’s mailed to me in a week or two.
I have been to the social security office three times in my life so far, and though I’ve found it pretty painless compared to, say, the DMV, I don’t wish it for you. However, this visit was considerably more joyous than the first two.
The first — to change my name after I got married. I waited months post-wedding to do so, then did it as a misguided attempt at patching up a relationship that had hit an iceberg.
The second — to change my name back after the relationship was at the bottom of the cold ocean. I had a court order with me then, too. It’s where I decided that no matter what life may bring, I will never change my name again.
While I’m gone, I get a picture in the family chat of you after you’ve stood up on your own. You get bigger and more miraculous every day.
MorMor and Cappi take you walking in your brand new Jeep stroller. Baby Doll, one of my favorite dolls from when I was little, comes with you. The Jeep turns into a big bassinet for your nap. It’s ridiculously cute. This summer you and Kai can ride in it together.
We share leftover mac & cheese pizza for dinner and go into the bedtime routine early, adjusting another fifteen minutes in anticipation of daylight savings tomorrow. It’s not a struggle tonight — you yell at me and rub your eyes as I try to read you a book about pirates and then fall asleep the moment I lower you to the mattress.
Love,
Mama