two months old

my little bean,

you are not so little anymore, at least compared to the day you were born. i am reminding myself, each and every day, to relish this size of yours; to breathe it in deeply and to always remember what it is like to have your head nestled into the crook of my neck, your body pressed close to my chest. it will not always be like this.

with ease i can slip you into our wrap and wear you around, doing most anything around the house while you bounce along for the ride, most often falling into a deep sleep that cannot be sustained when i try to quietly slip you off and place you to sleep in your swing or on our bed. you will not have it. we were meant to be together. and so i wrap you up again and off we go conjoined at our fronts like a pair of siamese twins. i grumble sometimes about this but catch myself when i remember you will not be this small forever and one day–perhaps when you hit your teenage years and i seem a lot less cool to you than i once did–i will long for the time i can wrap you up and carry you along where i go.

we are two peas in a pod. you prefer my smell, my touch, my breath. i suppose all mothers experience this and, i hope, feel as honored as i do that you have bonded with and chosen me. biology was working in our favor but i humbly understand that it is not always this way; some mamas don’t have it as easy as i do, this connection that you and i share alone.

you smile. oh how you smile. it is usually prompted by a stupid grin on my face (or on papa’s or diri’s) but you return it with such vigor and glee. sometimes, yes, we find out you just needed to poop and poop you do. but, especially first thing in the morning, your smile is real and true and papa and i get a glimpse of the emotive little girl you will soon be. and the coos that, at times, accompany that wide, toothless grin: oy vey, they melt my heart. you are certainly trying to say something to us and so i make sure i listen and make sure i respond with how much i love you too. 

you still sleep with us (and will for quite some time). and a nighttime routine is beginning to take place as we realize you are not so little anymore and our days of taking you along to anywhere at any time are soon over. so we all get ready for bed and you lay between us. your eyes get heavy as we sing you lullabies and hymns. i am usually way out of tune but your papa keeps us on track with his deep and soothing voice, easily switching from “jesus loves the little children” to “how great thou art” and back to “silent night.” we always end with the doxology and, by that time, your eyelids have usually grown heavy, your suck on the pacifier has relaxed, and your arms flop bonelessly to the side. papa and i high five each other and snuggle in. we are fast asleep about five seconds after you.

you’ve taken plane rides (five! to be exact) and traveled to great cities (chicago, minneapolis, austin) and each and every time you were a champ. you must certainly have the olson blood in you from your great-grandma marilyn: she was the champion traveler. and this month you got to meet nana, your great-grandma beisman for whom you can thank for your chin. she loves you and has been an advocate in your imagination and early love of reading as she has given you twelve dr. seuss books already! we try to read you at least one book a day bc, as they say, the love of reading is learned in the lap. ain’t that the truth?

ramona bean, you are my dream machine. you are my milk monster. you are certainly more than i imagined. you are you. and each night, as papa and i sing you to sleep with some of our favorite hymns, i pray that we raise you up to be a young woman who knows and loves herself bc she knows and loves the great and beautiful mystery of life.