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Feeling a bit more, uh, emotional lately. December 16, 2009

Posted by Erin F. Wasinger in Letters to Alice.
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Dear Alice,

Yes, another letter. I feel I owe you this letter. Lately I’ve been getting out of work later, so we eat later and play later but you go to bed at the same time as always. Twenty minutes to a half hour a day with you isn’t enough time — I know this. I sigh a lot; that helps some. When I see you at night I scoop you up and in my pregnant-hormone-induced state I press my lips into your chubby cheek and I say “I miss you, did you miss Mommy?” and you shake your head no ’til I say “yes,” and then you nod. “Yes.”

That icky feeling you have there is called “guilt,” and this tactic I’m employing is called “guilt-tripping.” You’re going to be great at it. Next week’s lesson: passive-aggressiveness. We’re going to show Big Bird just how inadequate he is using nothing but sour compliments! VICTORY WILL BE MINE!

Um. Where was I.

Our moments together now come in mini episodes instead of heavy, dragging chunks of boring time.

Had I waited a couple weeks to complete the questionnaire from the doctor’s office, I would’ve been able to check off a few more skillz: you climb up in bed without help. You walk up and down the stairs holding my hand.

Speaking of which, I let go of one of your hands to shut the door behind us Sunday, and you flipped backwards down three stairs, landing with a very definite thunk-and-scream on the landing. My heart stopped and I pictured myself rushing into the ER with you in my arms, all TV-movie like. “Shhh, shh, you’re OK,” I said when I realized there was no blood. “Let’s go get Mr. Big.” And it worked. HOLY CRAP IT WORKED, I remembered thinking. HOLY CRAP, I’m an awesome mother!

Over the past weekend it was just you and I, while Daddy and your grandpa and uncles went to watch the Bengals game in Minnesota. I didn’t share you with anyone all day. We slept in ’til 8:30 and ate our breakfast and went shopping, and we “sang” Christmas songs all the way home from Appleton because after holding your crap together all day in public you wanted nothing more than to be at home, watching “Rudolph” on tape. Me too. So we collapsed on the couch and you let me put my arm around you and when the Abominable Snowman came on screen you pointed and said “BOMBOMB!” and I said “Yes, that’s the Abominable!” and you said “BOMBOMB!”

Last night, I busted the finger paint out after a good nine months or so forgetting they existed in the drawer we never, ever open. You picked up tiny globs with your tiny tips of your chubby toddler fingers and made little dabs on the white paper I’d laid out. I tried to create one of those Hallmarky moments, but you quickly reminded me we’re not Hallmarky-type people when I smooshed your hand into the red paint and tried to get you to make a hand print. OH THE HORROR! OH, THE PAINT! MOM! You shrieked as if Elmo had died right in front of you and then half rose from the dead as a zombie muppet. Oh! The dog’s nails pounded on the hardwood floors under the weight and speed of a canine thinking he was about to get a sandwich you’d dropped. I imagine the red globs of paint you flung on the floor weren’t quite as satisfying as chunk of roast beef.

I keep having little episodes such as these, and I think I couldn’t love you more, and then you go and sing and I’m a weepy mess.

I’m basically just that — a weepy mess who misses you, a lot.

Hormones are a bitch, Alice. But I do love you.

Mama

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