Today you are two-months-old. At this moment you are sleeping in our bed while Lily and I watch Nemo upstairs. I keep running down to check on you, still somewhat paranoid you will simply stop breathing when I’m not looking. Mothers worry about that kind of thing; we’re kinda insane that way.
I don’t yet feel like I know you as a person, but I already know you as a soul. I feel like you and I have been around a few times together and your old soul personality already shines through. You are so calm and relaxed about the world; you often seem to be reassuring me that it’ll all be OK. And then, your lower lip will jut out in a moment of sadness and my heart will break while I laugh at the beauty of the pout!
But enough of this mushy stuff, let’s talk about you and the car seat. What is it about being strapped in there that makes you think death is waiting for you around the corner? You’re such a happy baby when snuggled in the sling or standing up on your little bowed legs, punching furiously at the air. The second your cloth diaper clad ass hits the car seat you start fussing and within moments you’re in the midst of a full blown wail. I spend every car trip with my arm contorted into the back seat, trying over and over to shove the damn binky back into your mouth. It just kills me when I get the thing in there and you simply cry around it. Unless you fall asleep, car rides are somewhere around the seventh level of hell. I used to be able to leave Lily sleeping in the car seat after a ride, but you won’t have it; not for one moment.
You are so delicate and perfect; I can’t help but stare at you all the time. You look so much like your sister that in many ways, your face is starting to replace Lily’s in my memories. Lily may always be my first child but you will always be my baby.
And now I hear you wiggling around as you try to wake up. Lily is still focused on Nemo, but who knows how long that will last. In fact, there she goes. So I must end this letter and actually care for my children.
Know that you are loved,