Dear Lucy,
Nine months in, nine months out. That's no small anniversary.
In the last two months this mother and baby-ness has marked us both: you with a bruise on your cheek when I unsuccessfully tried to prevent a fall face first into your wagon, a scratch on your arm when I successfully prevented a fall backwards into the dining table; me with half moon scratches on my chest and nose where with your fingernails you make your claim to my body while you eat, a random pattern of bite mark bruises on my shoulder where you test out your new teeth.
When you eat you have two courses: one for sweet respite, the other for acrobatic feats.
The right side is a landing pad, a safe harbor, you snuggle in, pull your leg up toward your chest to get as close as possible, and look into my eyes and play with my hair while I wrap my arms around your cocoon.
The left side is a high dive platform, a flying trapeze, you twist and turn and stand and sit, practice yoga poses and somersaults all without ever letting go.
Nine whole months on this earth, my crowing rooster, my burrowing ostrich, my tattoo artist, my circus performer.
I love you.
Love,
Your Mama
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