Correspondence with Cole: three months

Dear Cole,

You laughed! Oh how you laughed. Your sweet giggles and their laugh-ifty laughness. If a mother can fall in love with her child more than once, Cupid forgot what holiday it is and again stuck me with his arrow the day those sweet chuckles befell your mouth.

If you smile only for your dad from here forth, I shalt not complain.

Let us pause and revisit the laugh. No one will mind. I've watched it a thousand times and have yet to tire of it.

Cole, if you grow up not fitting through doors because your head is so big, others may not understand, but your mother will. Indeed, you are the most adorable baby in the history of reproduction. If you obtain an ego, it's deservedly so.

I can't believe I'm writing this already, but happy three-month birthday, Baby Cole.

No way are you this old. Someone must have thieved a few ounces of sand in the hourglass of life because surely, the minute-hand ticked too quickly.

After 90 days, you laughed. And while it's video brings me so much joy, now and then, sadness overshadows.

Sometimes I miss my parents, your grandparents, so much. I wish they could see you every day or every weekend or at least every holiday. But the distance between North Dakota and Colorado is great, and work schedules and winter weather aren’t always forgiving. They love you so much.  They miss you too. Thank you for laughing while the camera was rolling. Thank you for letting us capture your first (and so far, only) laugh and share it so they could see.

Sometimes I want to bottle you up and keep you three months forever. Since I know our full-time days and nights together are limited, I’ve taken to holding you whenever your eyes are open. So as soon as you awake in your favorite of chairs, I break from writing to cradle your little behind.

And at three months, your little behind isn’t so little anymore. I retired your newborn-sized clothes a few weeks ago. At your eight-week check up, you’d gained 4 lbs and 3 inches. You put away 8 ounces like sexy underwear you don’t want your grandmother to find. Sometimes your grizzly-like guzzling hurts you. Like at Thanksgiving in Colorado, for example.

At Grandma and Grandpa Ryan’s house, your dad and I learned what colic sounds like. I gained a new appreciation for single moms, dads, grandparents, etc. For three hours, you scrunched your face, punched your fists and if allowed slightly more hand-eye coordination, you’d have surely given your middle finger to the world.

Your belly hurt. And you insisted every one of the Rocky Mountain goats heard first hand.

And while I still have my hearing, I consulted with a financial planner to open a college-savings plan for you. Turns out, your dad and I aren’t saving enough for retirement. So until our finances are in enough shape to keep us eating through our 80s, we’ll open a little savings account for you instead. Never will your dad and I have enough to pay for your entire post-high school education, but we’ll save what we can. You won’t have everything, little boy, but you’ll have everything you need, and even some of what you want. I hear that’s the secret to happiness. Your welcome.

And speaking of happy, could you wait a couple years before you flirt with the ladies, please? Every time I go anywhere, women stop me in my tracks, asking your name, age, weight, star sign, etc. They practically throw their wedding rings over their left shoulders as you approach. I’m sure this is fun for you, but it makes buying milk an afternoon-long affair for me.

But at least that afternoon affair is one spent with you. Someday you’ll repay me in cash money. Until then, I'll accept ha-has and tee-hees :)

Love you,
Mama