Sometimes I feel like I’m already writing you these notes from the grave. Not because motherhood leaves me feeling halfway run over (it’s more skateboarding that does), but because maybe there’s been one too many Hollywood movies or The Secret Life of Bees books or episodes of Full House that have left me feeling like I must write to you and tell you all I can in case something takes me before you’re grown and can remember the way I looked at you. Maybe it’s because my childhood best friend lost her mom, Nonny’s best friend, just before you were born. I don’t know, but either way this letter is: 1) Starting out sort of depressing and 2) Meant to exist so you will never doubt how much you are loved.
We’ve been having the most fun little breakfasts lately in our brightly lit, crumb-covered kitchen. I make eggs and toast bagels and you lick off all the cream cheese and then saturate the bread with drool. We listen to music and dance with sticky fingers. All of a sudden in the last week, instead of waving your hands to sign ‘all done’ you actually say “Ah dun”. Your voice is like wind chimes to me. It trills on in my head after the sound has stopped. It makes me feel so happy and also a little ache in my heart because it is so sweet and so small right now. When I hear you in the morning, my heart skips a beat. You’re here. You’re real. I’m always the proudest I’ve ever been when I say “This is my daughter, Avalon”.
I don’t think anyone has ever wanted to be around me more than you, but I’m not complaining, it just catches me off guard.
Sometimes I find Dada’s still-warm work shoes right next to the bathtub only to realize, as he’s reading stories and combing your tiny hairs down the hall, that he just now took them off. He’s right into it with you and he’d never complain. You are so loved little baby.