Oh, my poor baby, what a snot-filled and disappointing Thanksgiving we just endured. All of us wretched, with noses running hither and yon, and canceling your Godlessparents for Thanksgiving and it just being the three of us and Milo, and you were so out of sorts you didn't even want any cranberries or stuffing. For several days you pretty much only nursed, and even that was hard with your stuffed nose. We took as many as four showers a day just for the steam. Today we are still a bit stuffy, but you went back to school, and sobbed when I dropped you off, which you haven't done in weeks. You have been away from school for an entire week, and even though you smiled when you awoke from a car nap to see where you were, I gather it was all too much. You are tired. I am tired. We are tired together.
In theory your grandparents are coming for Christmas - half of them, anyway. Though if I am honest though I know they miss you and us very much, I am dreading their coming in the midst of a worsening pandemic in which there will literally be nothing whatsoever for us to do except follow the usual routines of the day with you, much of which - bathtime, diapers, snuggling in bed - they can't really be privy to. At some point today I will push through my fatigue and put candles in the windows and a wreath on the door. I will also recriminate myself for not doing more writing even though I am missing you.
These are hard days, Succotash. I've taken to fantasizing about a future normal. I've been looking up pressure walls to make your room in New York. I've been imagining how you will make the transition to your new school. Wondering about when you will start to talk.
Loving you, and loving you, and loving you.
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