He Eats His Hands
You are 3 1/2 months old……and YOU’RE EATING YOUR HANDS? As your guide mother, I am concerned that we are responsible for this cannibalistic behavior.
I know your guide father refused to touch your mother’s pumped breast milk. He even acted grossed out by it….IN FRONT OF YOU. I tried to cover your eyes and ears, but there MTM was, icking and yucking and bleching his way right out of the room as soon as I got your bottle out of the refrigerator. It didn’t help that I chased him around the house and tried to squirt him with the stuff. I wanted him to tell me whether he thought it was warm enough for you, and he acted like I was trying to spray him with mace. Or rat poison. I think Get that vile, nasty stuff away from me might’ve poured from his mouth to your impressionable little ears.
I fear that we have hampered your positive development for life by putting you off your food, especially when I see photos like this one of you on the internet:
Other than your flesh-eating tendencies – which I hope have nothing to do with our shenanigans with your food – you delight me. I miss your wise, knowing, almost ancient eyes. Your cheeks are plumper than when I saw you last. I want to jump through my computer screen and squeeze them all the time. The noises you make are native sounds I can almost, not quite hear, but I imagine them every day. You’re even on my mind when I go to the movies and see your toy giraffe on the screen.
It’s been too long since I held you, almost two months since I heard you laugh. I know you miss your gorgeous mom who’s back at work, and I can see you adjusting with ease, because you KNOW things. You’re an old soul. In your eyes, I can still see where you came from, the stories you could tell me. I’m dying to know.
Let’s make a deal. The next time I see you, I’m going to rock you and sing the song I crooned at your parents’ wedding. You were in our hearts with The Very Thought of You. We knew you even then. Maybe you were in the cracks of the mortar at Old Sheldon Church, hanging in the Spanish moss, floating in the air. All I know is you were there. I’ll sing that song to you if you’ll whisper to me, give me a sign. Tell me what you know while you still recall it. Spill your dreams before that’s all you think they are. Let me help you hold them close before the world tries to tell you they’re not true.
Live life, little Coop. Every day.
Your adoring guide parents,
Andra and MTM