Correspondence with Cole: four months

Dear Baby Cole who is hardly a baby anymore or so it feels,

So much has changed in four weeks, so much so I feel like childhood is slipping through your chubby little fingers.

Today you turn four months old. Happy birth date.

Three weeks ago I returned to work, sending you to a sitter we adore. She’s patient, she’s hard-working, she has high standards and lives life low-key. I cried the morning I dropped you off, right in front of her. I couldn’t even hold it in. A blubbering banshee. And while she's awesome, if the feminist movement was about choice, I never got one. Staying home with you was never an option for me.

Part of me resents that.

Why must the cost to live exceed a young family’s earning potential? Even with two incomes, we struggle. A couple generations ago, mothers home with children was the norm. Now it’s a luxury for the wealthy or for mothers who’s children outnumber their shoe size. I’m angry at our country’s workaholic, high cost, high-needs transition. But then I remember: my role as a parent is to turn you into an adult. Not baby you forever.

So part of me is glad to return.


It's good for you to learn new faces, new people and a sense of independence. It's good for me too.

It's good for me to have purpose. Not that you weren’t purpose enough, but if I didn’t shower, you didn’t mind. Hygiene is held to a higher standard in public, however. And I appreciate that. Plus, extended periods at the office mean extended periods away from you, so even more, I appreciate the time we do share. And for the mothers who work part-time, it’s my belief they’ve captured the best of both worlds.

Your sitter tells me you roll and roll and roll like a rolling pin flattening Aunt Bev’s cut-out cookies. I’ve witnessed you roll once, but not multiple times. That’s because your father and I hold you every chance we get. We only have you a few hours a day now instead of all of them, so we soak and savor every droplet. Guilt envelopes if we leave you alone, kind of like how I feel now, knowing you’re awake, but leaving you to yourself anyway.

Right now, you’re in your Pack N’ Play, supposed to be sleeping so mama can write. Instead, you’re immersed in deep conversation with the TV stand, so I eavesdrop while you coo and squeal. I’ve read it’s good for babies to have a little alone time, to see their surroundings at their own pace, to stretch to reach toys and observe the world around them. But I still want to cradle you in my arms at every opportunity.

At four months, you can hold your head up and even reach objects hanging from your jungle gym, a present from Grandma Jane.

At four months, you cry in your car seat, which isn’t entirely true. You cry getting into your car seat. Once inside,  you pass the 40-mile commute with your eyes closed... Even when my tires get stuck or check engine light turns on. Because 20 below and 12 hours of darkness isn’t enough: Mother Nature gives us car trouble too.

When your father and I learned of your conception, we high-tailed it to a car dealership where the vehicles stood high from the ground and batteries withstand 30 below temperatures. I spent a lot of money on a vehicle to avoid all the catastrophes of Winters 2008, 2009 and 2010 --> Part I. Although the car trouble is different this year, the catastrophe remains.

Driving to work on a double-digit below zero day, you and I were comfortable in our seats until my check engine light hollered "HOWDY" and the temperature gauge fell from comfortable, to freezing. Fearing I’d hypothermeate your little bones, I called a car-mechanic friend at 7:30 in the morning, crossing my fingers he’d pick up. He did. And when he inspected my car that evening, he did not find frozen snow like he expected, nor did he find any of the ailments that plagued my vehicles in the past.

He found a mouse nest.

A M-O-U-S-E nest. What he didn’t find, was the mouse(s). I blame the country. Oh sure, it can happen in the city too, people say. Well, it never happened to me. So I blame your father too. Living 100 miles from Starbucks was HIS idea. I don’t mind ambulance sirens and other city noises. At least you’re close to a hospital!

You’ll surely turn out like your dad, appreciating nature, peeing outside and shooting animals just for fun. But just know, my sacrifices exceed staying up with you all night (yes, still!) pinching pennies for your education and not my vacation account, and dressing and redressing after a digested-breast-milk christening. You can thank me for it when you receive the Nobel Prize, teach PhD students or win the jackpot or something.

And if you never do those things, do this: laugh. And know I will always love you. Always always always.

Love,

Mama