Dear Boo,
I’m in San Francisco at a Grantmakers in the Arts conference. You and your daddy were here with me until this morning, when you left in the wee hours so your daddy could get to work at a reasonable hour. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone without kissing your sweet face, and while I know you are okay (and, in fact, at the moment, deeply asleep), I miss you so much I could pass out.
You smile at everyone who meets you. Yesterday, you met a few of my colleagues, and one of them, who has declared that she’s never having kids, said to me, “I couldn’t leave that little boy every morning. I don’t know how you do it.” I don’t know how I do it either, except by way of one foot in front of the other. It feels so wrong to work so I can pay to have other people be with you all day, most days. But I can’t afford to *not* work, and truth be told, my job is deeply fulfilling and gratifying – and in that way, I’m utterly blessed. But some days are much harder than others, and tonight, although I loved walking around San Francisco by myself for an hour, and I can’t wait to close my eyes for what I hope will be the first long night of uninterrupted sleep in more than half a year, I also feel adrift without you, and your father. You, my love, have become my anchor. Life with you and your daddy is joy I honestly never thought I’d know.
At the same time… it sure would be great if you could, you know, sleep. As in, regular hours. It would be super if you could start your day at a reasonable hour. Recently, we’ve started to hope and pray that you would sleep until 6 AM because 4 AM has become your witching hour. Honestly, it’s completely dark outside, the rest of the rational world is asleep, but you are ready to greet the morning far earlier than the rooster.
The crazy thing? Early this morning, namely, 4 AM, you woke up, and started calling for us. And since we are in a hotel, I couldn’t let you fuss to see if you’d go back down. So pretty shortly, I got up, turned on the light, and went to lift you out of your crib… and there you were, sitting up. For the first time. Sitting up, hollering your head off for someone to come get you so we could start playing. You’ve been sitting for a month now at least, but only if we sat you up. At some point, in the wee hours of this day, you figured out how to get from Point A to Point B. And crawling isn’t far behind.
I’m so proud of you. And in about seventeen hours, I’ll get to see you again. Until then, sleep well, sweet dreams, and don’t grow up too fast.
I love you,
Mama
