Dear Mads | 8 Months Old

Mama & Mads at the Misfit Mercantile, in Apex

My Huckleberry Friend,

I may not be the best housekeeper, but damn I love you, and I love your good-looking, good-doing Papa, and I even love, so dearly, that smelly grump of a mutt of his, Lunchbox.  I put a lot more energy into loving you lot than dusting the furniture, and I'm okay with that if you are.  [I think you are.  In fact, you demand even more love, always, which makes vacuuming the carpet a hasty, one-armed affair.]  Your Great-Grandma Clacher freely admits she's not much for cleaning house, never has been.  She keeps her counters wiped down and sink clear of dishes [as do I], but has far better things to do than get down on hands and knees scrubbing or weeding.  She, primarily, is an artist, an activist, a reader and thinker, a talker, a mom and then a grandma.  I can't thank her enough for that time spent with child-me on her lap, drawing pictures of our pets and writing out simple words, when she could've [some might say should've] been wiping down ceiling fans instead.  Dust allergies are a small price to pay for actually living this life.  Don't you think?

A few nights ago, you refused your bedtime.  You were awake well past the sun, but the night was warm enough to take you out onto the back deck to star gaze and soak up some moon glow.  Your Papa and I managed to point out Jupiter, but we need a little help identifying the other myriad stars, planets, constellations.  I think we'll get better with practice, as summer lingers on and on, and you get more headstrong about making your own schedule.  In a couple years, you and your dad can set a tent out in the back yard and try your hand at camping.  And then it won't be long after that before your Grandpa Bob and Papa are taking you out into the real woods, to teach you to tie knots, build fires, to do all manner of efficient, scouting things.  

Long before I met your father I knew the man I'd marry would be able to do three things: grow a beard, build a fire, and talk to animals.  Your Papa does all that and you will one day, too.  It's so easy for me to picture you as a man--I don't know if it's due to your personality or what.  I'm excited about the man you'll be.  But even then, your age in the double digits, a beard on your cheeks, you'll still be my baby.  When you're 80 years old, you'll still be my baby, and we'll still be your Mama and Papa.  Nothing will change that.

I love you, sweet boy, now and forever,

Mama

31 Weeks, with Sgt. Doofus

32 Weeks, wearing a onesie tie-dyed by Selena

33 Weeks, in a pile of laundry, showing off your new teeth

34 Weeks, impossible to photograph without blur