Three Months
I think I figured out the foundation of parenthood and like all good things, it can be explained with a Beatles song.
“Take a sad song and make it better.”
Due to the onset of teething, Will’s had a little tummy trouble lately.
That’s a polite way of saying the laws of physics don’t apply to babies and they can miraculous shit between their shoulder blades.
Having dogs is great preparation for parenthood because they teach you that when it comes to love, nothing is too gross.
Indiana once ate four cups of food, hopped in the pool, swam a few laps, jumped out and promptly vomited four cups of food onto my bare feet.
My reaction?
Rubbing Indiana’s belly and consoling him - everyone throws up occasionally. It’s going to be ok.
So, when confronted with a poop-covered baby, you do the only thing you can do.
Strip down, grab your poop-covered kid, console him that everything is gonna be ok, grab your husband and jump in the shower together.
We shimmied to 70s pop music under a cascade of warm water. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt and like that, we took a sad song and made it better.
Dear Will:
Three months and we’re starting to ease into our lives together.
You’re sleeping longer at night, smiling a lot more and in the mornings, we dance to Michael Jackson while getting ready.
Like your mama, you agree that Billie Jean has the best bass line of all time and that there when in doubt, you can find great advice in pop music - “Be careful what you do/Don’t go around breaking young girls’ hearts” and “Be careful of what you do 'cause the lie becomes the truth.”
You especially like it when I sing, “The kid is not my son,” and point at you.
Three months old and you already understand irony.
I’m starting to love the wee hours with you - you sleep through your night feeding and when you’re done, you give me this great, milk-drunk smile while stretching and snuffling.
My favorite, though, is when I reach out and we fall asleep holding hands. You curl your little fingers around mine and I don’t think I’ve ever felt such peace.
You’re growing tall, buddy. You’re already longer than my torso which is both a point of pride and something that makes me a wee bit sad because it wasn’t too long ago that you nestled against my chest, a perfect fit.
Regardless of how tall you get, you’ll always be my koala bear. And bud, I hope you get tall.
I have this dream that senior year in high school, you’ll letter in soccer, basketball or lacrosse. There’s a night where they invite all of the graduating seniors’ moms on the field/court and I’ll get stand alongside you - my six foot tall son and his 4’11” mama.
I remember watching this in high school - the look of pride mirrored on the faces of mother and son. I hope we get that one day. I will always be so proud of you.
We took our first family photos and while you looked great, I think we can all admit that your brother stole the damn show.
I mean, Cuban links and argyle? Guy could be running square grouper out of Miami.
Oh God.
Don’t ever learn what that means.
I had all of these plans for your first Christmas - the requisite picture with Santa where you look red-faced and enraged like most babies do, taking you to see Christmas lights and Christmas parties where you meet all of the aunts and uncles who love you so much.
But, Little Mouse - it’s just as Robert Burns said: The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men. Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
That’s basically been the cornerstone of 2020.
So, I won’t make plans but I will hope - hope that you get to meet Santa, hope that we’ll bake cookies together, hope that one day, me and you and Daddy can celebrate Christmas in Rothenburg Germany where we’ll share pretzelbrot and kinderpunsch.
Hope that our lives together are filled with love, joy, generosity and peace.
Merry Christmas, Little One.
The look on your face very clearly says, “God….damn it. She’s going to make me pose for family pictures at every holiday, isn’t she?”
Yeah, bud. I am.
You are the best gift I’ll ever receive.
Mama loves you.
xx
