DesignForMiniKind

Dear Bee // 52

baby in woods

Dear Bee,

Hey lady. I haven’t written you in awhile, mostly because you just cannot stop communicating at home and by the end of the day, there aren’t any more words. We’ve covered everything, from where duck dads come from to your preference for the blue lion shirt, and although I know I’ll forget many of these highlights, I also know I won’t forget the ones I need to carry with me.

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Happy Birthday, Bee

kid playing ukelele

Hey lady! You’re two. I think I’m supposed to say that time flies, but good gracious, this day feels like an eternity ago. So it didn’t fly. It kind of chugged along slowly on a rickety wooden track, uphill and bumpy – start and stop and red and green – but Bee, you know how much I love a great train ride.

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Dear Bee // 51

baby swimming with pool noodles

Dear Bee,

You and I, we struggle with balance. (Here’s a secret: everyone does.) You hoard pool noodles and stuffed animals and plastic bowls, begging to be filled with your latest finds from around the house. You want to wear both headbands, use every sticker, eat the whole bag of pistachios. You want your sippy cup filled all the way – overflowing – “just in case” you say.

And I’m much the same. I hoard memories and moments in a futile attempt to seize the day before it passes too quickly. I want to wear both hats, use every gift, eat the whole bag of pistachios. I want my cup to overflow, too.

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Dear Bee // 50

bee

Dear Bee,

I remember the first time I saw a kid in my 4th grade class blow a bubble within a bubble while they were chewing gum. It was fascinating to me, like how could something so flexible and thin – weak, I thought – possibly become a home for something else? How could there still be room in there? It just… defied logic. And now, here you are. Doing the same for me, 20-something years later.

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Dear Bee // 49

dear bee letter

Dear Bee,

Here’s what your mother is really, really bad at: (1) Operating chopsticks, (2) Negotiating in person, (3) Singing on key, and (4) Living in the moment. It’s not that I’m living in the future, because truly, I’m not. I’m as far from Type A as you can get in this department as I have very little future plans solidified other than to do my best to not be an a-hole to the people I come in contact with on a daily basis.

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Dear Bee // 48

dear-bee

Dear Bee,

We’re entering the part of the log ride where the waters get kind of choppy and I can’t decide which way to lean: left or right or not at all? Should I close my eyes and hold my breath, clutching the handlebar, preparing for the descent that awaits? Or do I power through, swallow hard and raise my hands overhead to release control entirely? It’s discipline time and suddenly, I feel like we’re back in the newborn days of guess-and-check. I’ve found myself trying on different hats to find a technique that works for both of us, one after another after another, until we find one that fits for a day, but then, no, our head must have grown two sizes since then so fling goes the hat, across the room and we dig, dig, dig for a different one.

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Dear Bee // 47

bee

Dear Bee,

We survived Molar Week, but not without a few bumps and tantrums and sky-rocketing blood pressures along the way, but hey, that’s survival. It’s bloody and scarring, but then you have a really good story to tell your grandchildren over a tall glass of lemonade. “My aching knee,” I’ll say. “And good Lord, those molars in the spring of 2014.”

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Dear Bee // 46

kid-in-sauna

Dear Bee,

When I lived in Los Angeles, I would ride my bike to a local coffee shop to work on writing projects. This was in the early days of blogging and I was convinced I’d pen an ever-so-slightly-embellished memoir about spending my college years in the thick of a formidable religious organization that was perhaps really a glorified cult? I didn’t write the book (thank the Lord), but I did pedal to that tiny coffee shop daily, convinced this would be the day a caffeinated bean would settle into my soul and sprout a brilliant, best-selling work of literature.

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Dear Bee // 45

sick baby

Dear Bee,

We’ve been hit with the sick stick repeatedly, and it is making everyone crazy in this house. You caught your first super high fever a few weeks ago, but didn’t seem phased in the slightest – still jumping on the couch ottomans, higher than high – until boom – everything ached in your tiny little body. Bee, you were miserable. And you whined this sad little cow-sound and lost your appetite and gained a new distaste for everything, even your boyfriend Cailou. Suddenly, we couldn’t fix it.

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Dear Bee // 44

baby-in-bath

Dear Bee,

We are experiencing the weirdest season together. Yesterday I was watching you move our office furniture around (future interiors stylist, called it months ago) and I realized just how comfortable I am with you, how normal you seem to me. You seem like – dare I say it – my daughter. Like you’re going to grow up to become a child, then a teenager, and then a grown-up (but hopefully not too much of a grown-up). You’re an actual person.

I realize this sounds crazy, because of course you are a person, but Bee, babies are these funny little drops of dye that land in our water and swirl and swirl and swirl us around until they change our truest colors. And when you’re in it, you don’t see it. But then we open our eyes a little wider and blink a little harder and realize we’re not quite what we used to be. That you’re not quite what you used to be. We’re yellow now, Bee.

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