A letter to Little B

Dear Bazooka Jane,

The other day at Aldi you made the assumption that all other customers were there to see you (and by the end of the trip they were ). You announced your self and your shiny shoes and told everyone you are two. Except you're not. Yet. But it made me think. About you and the bursting little life inside you. All smiles and eyelashes and fearless joy. And the places they will take you. It made me think about the pieces of your little personality. And the enormous strength you already have.

Every time I take you to the beach you make a frank and furious bee line for the water. With you there is no pausing to test the temperature of the cold Atlantic blue one toe at a time. You just plow right in, as deep as you can go, until someone saves you from yourself or a wave knocks you flat. At which point, you will only laugh, pick your little self up and head right back in with an even bigger grin. Sweet thing, you terrify your mother. But I have to confess, there is a part of me that loves this. Not the idea that you have no sense of danger, so much. But the idea of living without fear, of seeking life and adventure with insatiable zest and gusto. Don't lose that. Temper it with some sense, if you please, but keep it alive if you can.

You and I each measure our will against the other, mine to keep you breathing oxygen, yours to discover what it means to be a fish. Most often the only compromise we can find is to waltz across the wet sand. You in my arms and the wind in our hair. One, two-three, slow, quick-quick. Tide washing over my feet and your sister contentedly gathering every pink rock on the beach behind our swirling resolution. I love this part. Every piece of it from the blue horizon to the gray rocks marking the perimeter. The smell, the breeze, the gentle sounds, and the cool spray on my legs. And my girl laughing with her eyes. I love it. Keep this part too. Keep your will and your drive and your ability to yield too. And never forget how to let someone sweep you off your feet and waltz, two-three, slow, quick-quick, into the breeze.

I love you, Crazy. Love,

Mama