Letter: Month Thirty-One

Dear E,

This last month was an eventful one. Your dad and I decided to pack up the car and take you on a car trip to visit your Aunt Gwyn and her family in Oregon. For the most part you were a trooper during the 13-hour car rides there and back. You loved playing with your cousins and would follow them around from room to room. We put your port-a-crib in your cousin S’s room and after you had been put to bed you and him would stay up late normal chatting and giggling.

You’re fascinated by the things you see around and love to explore. We have a bunch of spice jars sitting on our kitchen counter and your dad showed you how they smell when you open them. So lately one of your favorite things to do is to grab a jar off the counter and carry it over to me, wait for me to open the lid, carefully stick your nose in the jar, inhale deeply and then murmur “mmmm…” appreciatively. It’s adorable to watch and I remain ever grateful that you haven’t decided that you want to open the jars yourself–yet.

You’ve started to want us to repeat things lately. When you take a shining to a certain story book you want to have it read to you three, four, times in a row. When you want us to repeat something you exclaim, “more again!” which cracks me up. You also still say “I help you, Ma!” when you want me to help you with something which makes me smile.

Lest you get an inflated head, you can certainly be very trying at times. Sometimes you insist on being carried from the car into the store which I think you’re getting too big for. It’s never predictable–a lot of the time you walk around holding my hand quite happily. But sometimes you’re determined to stick to my side like glue and nothing but picking you up and holding you close will stop you from wailing.

When I find myself getting annoyed at having to juggle my purse, miscellaneous bags, my car keys, and you in my arms I try to take a deep breath and appreciate how at this brief moment in time your life you still want to be close to me as you possibly can. And then I lean in and smell the sunshine in your hair and plant a kiss on your cheek.

Your father says I spoil you sometimes but I tend to disagree.

Love,

Mama