Dear Bee, We’re in a bit of a busy season. I’m launching a new project – one that was directly inspired by you and my desire to create a space you’d be proud of. Doesn’t that sound silly and kind of irrational? Seeking a blessing from an infant? It totally is, Bee. But I think
Giving you a sibling will require that, Bee – a big leap of faith for our family. A change of scenery and a bit of discomfort, and a lot of really intense paperwork. But now, because of you, our signature reads differently. It’s a bit more loopy and messy, and our I’s aren’t always dotted and we sometimes forget to cross our T’s. And it’s one hundred times more beautiful, smudged with the ink of faith and courage and unconditional love.
Here’s the deal. Your first birthday has come and gone, and you’re walking now, and you survived your first bloody lip (I, however, did not fare as well and may need ten bonus sessions of therapy for each future time you’re injured), and it’s summer and we’re venturing out and about and experiencing new things and it’s all going so very quickly now. In the short time it took for me to type that sentence, you have just sprouted ten inches and are asking me to drive you to the mall to meet your boyfriend Scottie.
And this year has felt a lot like those early weeks as I learned to operate something that was larger than me, something that had weight. We had days of ebb and flow, Bee, where the ride was a bit jerky, yes, but we’d ride along happily until I’d realize my foot was off the brake – that I hadn’t washed your hands or given you enough sunscreen or packed the bug spray – and then I’d slam the brake out of fear and insecurity and we’d both feel the jolt. And then I’d gun it, pressing my foot on the gas as hard as I could, praying this phase would pass because it was more than I could handle.
I’m typing this from my office and your dad is in the kitchen cooking eggs with you, and, in the span of perhaps five minutes, he has instructed you to (1) Stop sucking on the dishwasher, (2) Don’t bite the dog, and (3) Get the rolling pin out of the fireplace. Such is our life now, stringing together sentences we’d never imagined we would, trying to blink and not blink at the same time.
In the morning, you smell of Strawberry Puffs and possibility. We nurse and cuddle (a bit) before your brain tells you that, hey I’m a baby, it’s time to move up and move out. And you do. You are so close to walking that I’m googling weird things like, “What happens when baby walks?” and “What did I forget to babyproof?” and “How to slow time?”
Dear Bee, Here is what our life looks like now that you’re ten months old: The day begins harmless and quite nice, eating a few Puffs on the kitchen floor, both of us barefoot and bleary-eyed. We make animal sounds and point to everything that exists, over and over again, running laps of vocabulary across
Dear Bee, Your will has entered our lives and your will hath fury. Just this morning you snuck your hand into my shirt to swipe a nursing pad from its whereabouts, and when I interfered with the attempt, your entire face ripped off and a screaming goat appeared behind your baby-like flesh. The wail was