I miss you when you’re sleeping. I’m gonna be honest, I’m totally glad you sleep well because it helps all of us be better, but I miss kissing your cheeks and the way you buzz your lips when you’re examining something new. I love the way you dance, shaking your tiny butt to Taylor Swift. I love the way you scream-laugh when I kiss your tummy or push you on the swing. I love how you’re always making noise.
This afternoon when I tried to work on this letter while you were awake, you climbed inside of the bar stool, then tried to play the ukulele, then crawled over to me and held onto my leg, tapping it it with your palm until I stopped to play with you.
I cried last week telling Dada that I worried you liked me the most you ever would right now and that slowly, slowly you would grow away from me. I don’t know why I think this. I’ve only grown closer to my mom, your Nonny. I know she won’t ever be perfect. She pulled my hair once when I said something sassy and she wouldn’t take me to Costco once because of the way I had styled my hair, but she tries every minute to be her best for me and for those that love her, and for herself too because she respects who she is. She is the mom I’m always trying to be.
You get so excited when we get home. You kick your legs and sometimes squeal and it makes me happy not just that you love the home we’ve made for you, but because it means you are happy with little: me, dada, the tiny kitchen, your room that used to be a garage, that broken fireplace you’ve always had an affinity for.
When you wake up from your naps, your eyes are still in your dreams, but more happy about what’s in front of you and your hair is stuck to your face. You scratch your tummy sometimes and point at things and smile.
Isn’t it wild that I’m the keeper of these memories for you? And isn’t it crazy that some days I still wonder if I’m doing important work?