Thank you. For your good humour, your generous coos and gummy grin. Your single dimple brings us all into the brisk air of clumsy, blind love. Your singularly fetching half-Caesar hairline drives me to distraction.
Thank you for tying my hands while the world is in crisis. For clutching my hair in exuberant need and frustration. For reminding me with your escalating screams that you could be the next Mister Rodgers. Or 5000% the opposite. Maybe you're just gassy?
Will I just be along for the ride in your life? Will we even ride together? Personally, I insisted on walking alone, but if you go this route I hope you'll choose appropriate foot ware; I've been unequivocally scolded by my chiropractor. If you want to ride with Daddy more than me, I'll also understand. It really comes down to musical preference, I suppose.
You're 2 months and 11 days old, and I thank you. I'm hoisting your 11.5 lbs regularly, and still I thank you. You've grown 2 inches so far and are stretching and kicking your way to a third.
You're so sturdy your ears don't stay folded to the side of your head anymore. You've started to notice when I cut more than your finger's nail, and may have had your first punishing introduction to Newton's 2nd law of motion against Daddy's desk yesterday. If you were paying any attention. You've noticed your feet and have learned to keep a watchful eye lest someone change your shoes again.
You've begun to covet the toys of others, and have been awarded screen time with lasting success.
It's your first Thanksgiving, and you're not yet privy to the writings of Howard Zinn or the ghastly birth of this holiday, but in our quest to dignify every day with gratitude you may be asked what you're thankful for at the table later. Just cue me before you spit up.
Love you,
Mom
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