Almost One

You and your six chins walked almost happily into Montessori today, and smiled and waved at me when I said my special goodbye ("quack quack quack I'll be right back"), and now I am around the corner trying to work and looking at pictures of you first. 

You are now able to: clap, climb the stairs spotted but unassisted, eat an apple or a pear, crawl around in the bed (uh oh), say "Momo" when you see the dog. You play next to a baby at Montessori and it is charming. Yesterday we had a babyfriend over and you had what I think was your first introvert meltdown. You are obssessed with the construction details on the top of your play teepee, in which we plan soon to place a toddler mattress to turn into a secret bed for you. I will miss sleeping with you, as you are warm and snuggly. I will probably be lax about you sneaking into our bed when you have a bad dream. I am soft. 

I am in the process of applying to 2s programs for you in New York for next year, which seems impossibly far off. We have applied early decision for you to another Montessori that is walking distance from our apartment. I am imagining a world where you and I stroll down in the morning, you play all day while I write nearby, and then we stop in Madison Square Park to play on our way home, or go up to meet your dad for early dinner. I imagine a world with a COVID vaccine and Joe Biden as president, and that your babyhood in quarantine will one day be a matter for family lore and nothing else, and not the new eternity. 

You are better at keeping your sneakers on. You like the baby swings, especially when I stop you at the top of your swing arc to bring you in for a kiss. I love kissing your baby cheeks. I see them and say "May I have a smooch?" and then I shower you with kisses. 

It's warm today, but the leaves are changing colors. Fall in New England. 

I have to plan the world's smallest socially distant first birthday party for you. I think we will serve carrot cupcakes and get you a balloon. 

I can't believe it's almost been a year. I feel like you just got here, and like I have always known you. My Succotash wish.

Crying in the Car

I'm in a spare, nearly empty antique office in downtown Beverly, five minutes away from you while you are enjoying your first day of Montessori. At least, I hope you are enjoying it. You were smiling and looking with curiosity at all the other kids and babies, and when we got to your classroom your favorite teacher Donna was waiting for you, and you reached out to her right away. I wrote down my cell number and kissed your cheek twice and waved bye bye with both hands and I made it all the way to the car before I started to cry.

I know it's good for you. I know it. You need to be with adults who aren't your father or Manamana or me. You need to be with other babies. They have a whole room set up just for you. It's time to start learning to nap not in my arms. But damn, am I a stereotype of a first time mother dropping her baby off at day care. 

I'm going to try to work today, so that I can at least point to a good reason why you are in a classroom with relative strangers instead of at home with me and your father. If everything goes perfectly I am to pick you up at noon, which is in two hours. If you are having a tough time they have promised to notify me. I can be there in five minutes.

Five minutes.

I love you so much it hurts. 

Do you know that? If you ever read this, then you will.