a letter to my mine.

Every once in awhile I get mushy and mama-y and need to remember these times, this present-tense adventure with the Little Bugger – so, for today, a Letter To My Mine.  And I know, it’s so, so mama-bloggeresque, which makes me slightly cringe as a writer, but it’s the truth – my truth – today.  Enjoy.  

Cancan the Professional Rocker. 

Dear Baby,

You cray-cray.

You are lovable and huggable, never pausing for a moment’s rest.  You are smart and you are daring and you are courageous; you give me a new appreciation for the phrase “All Boy.”  I get it.  I understand its full meaning now, in a way I never did before.

The world is your jungle gym, quite literally, upon which you flounce your little body and climb to the highest of heights, looking back not for my help, but for my approval.  And Baby, I approve.  I cheer you on.  I see you and I believe in you and, like you, I wish I too could flail my body without consequence toward the massive pile of blankets and sleeping bags and camping pads propped up against giant Bear-Bear in the corner of your room.  Life is simply one big adventure for you, and I acknowledge now that this will likely end in a visit to the Emergency Room before the age of five.  And when that happens, I’ll cry along with you and I’ll hold you if you’ll let me, but – just warning you – I’ll probably close my eyes if there’s a needle or blood or puking, no offense.

For Cancan, you are one independent, spirited tiny human.  You won’t let us feed you anymore, preferring to spoon-feed your face and your shirt and your hair and a little bit of your mouth your favorite applesauce-yogurt-peanut butter mixture.  You loathe the process of being strapped into your carseat and stroller now, because it means that you don’t get to walk and run and toddle freely.  And you’re even attempting to dress yourself, mimicking the way Mama and Dada put your shoes and socks on, hoping to mirror the same actions.  You are a brilliant being, you are.

And those words – ugh, you little talking fool.  You call us by name, and you call your loafers “sh!” and you call every person you meet Baby.  Hello cute little old church lady – Baby. Hello Mr. Illegal Pharmaceutical Sales Representative on the corner of Ashton and Holloway – Baby.  Hello San Francisco State college kid skating down the street, late to class – Baby.  And in a way, I think you’re right: for at one time or another, they too were babies, they too (one can hope) had their mamas who stared at them with wonder and delight, changed by their very existence.

For that’s who you are: you are an existence changer.  And for that, I’m most grateful, and I’ll continue to throw the mush out there if it means realizing how you’ve changed me for the better, for the always.  Because Baby, there’s no place I’d rather be than learning and adventuring and being with you in this life.

Now come and give Mama loves.  Please?  

xo, mama.

Who’s changed you?  What letter do you need to write to your Mine today?  And seriously, how cute is my kid?  

6 thoughts on “a letter to my mine.

  1. So sweet. I love that he calls everyone Baby! After having my son, I started looking at everyone — but especially those surly, pierced, tattooed teenagers that one encouters every so often — in a new way… some mama’s baby. Hmm… what does life hold for my sweet baby boy? only time will tell.

    1. Yes to flouncing! I just need to be more accurate in my pillow-diving – the space to land is more Cancan-sized and not so much mama-sized. 🙂 Look forward to getting together after we move!

      Cara Meredith

      be, mama. be. carameredith.com

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