Dear Mom . . .

Dear Mom,

Forrest is going to be five months old tomorrow. Can you believe it? I’m able to set him down to play as I make my first meal of the day (albeit past 11am). It seems like just yesterday that I held a squirmy crying baby, wondering when I’d ever get my arms back. 

He’s more of a cuddler now than ever. He looks at me with those big blue eyes of his and gives me a big cheesy grin before he quickly tucks his head into my shoulder. It’s my new favorite thing.

He has my smile, Mom. Two people have told me this, just this week alone. I think you’d be so happy to know that. You always swore we looked nothing alike, and perhaps I’ll say the same thing about my kiddos, but I did have your smile, Mom. There’s no denying that. And he has mine. Meaning he has yours. Beaming and beautiful. 

And he’s a ham, Mom, just like me. Blaine and I were talking about it the other day. We dance like goofballs in the kitchen and ham it up throughout the day and I just know you’d roll your eyes with zero surprise and make some comment about me when I was younger doing the exact same. 

Will he belt out songs to everyone’s annoyance like I did? Will I make fun of the way he sings (nasally, like all the 90s stars I was trying to emulate) like you did? Will he grab the mic at his kindergarten holiday concert and begin an impromptu solo like I did? Will I crack up at his antics that not-so-secretly bring light and joy to our household like you did? 

You always did tell me one day I’d have a child just like me. If it takes a ham to know a ham, then I’d say your prediction was right. 

I typed “is right” and then had to change it to past tense. You’re no longer here. Those corrections happen all the time and never stop hurting. To me you’re still here, just out of sight. I’ll keep fixing them and perhaps my reflexes with build with new muscle memory of your loss as time moves on. Perhaps not. I quite like the idea of you always being present to me. 

Until next time, Mom.

Love, 

Your little girl