Dear Veronica,
Today you are 6 weeks old. Somehow that seems like quite an accomplishment on all our parts.
As I write this you are sitting next to me in your bouncer and I am sipping coffee and nursing a headache brought on by having two drinks last night (oh, the days when two drinks was just the beginning of an evening). Last night we left you with your grandparents (our first time going out alone!) and your Dad and I went downtown.
We had drinks on the rooftop of a sexy hotel bar and then shared a fantastic meal at a new restaurant. I wore a short skirt and a favorite top from my LA days and I sipped at a fancy cocktail while gazing past your father's handsome face at the downtown skyline. For just a moment, I felt like my old self. But it was fleeting.
I'm not the woman I used to be. When I looked into your father's eyes, searching for some reassurance of us being out like this in the world, I saw your eyes looking back and I could feel you out there, this third part of us. My milk came in then and I missed you, missed the top of your head and your smooth little cheeks, the heft of you in my arms.
This relationship we have, dear girl, is so different than any I've ever had. I love you and I like you, but it's more than that. You are indescribably part of me and I don't think I'll ever be able to go anywhere alone without the sense that you are out there somewhere, connected to me.
None of this stopped us from enjoying ourselves though. We ate our meal languidly and talked about writing and projects and travels and friends and, of course, you. And when we came home there you were, kicking around in your grandmother's arms, a little over-tired but just fine. After they left, we got in bed all three of us -- you on your father's chest and me curled up beside you both, and we fell asleep like that, the light left on, almost as if to prove that we are three.
Love,
Mom
Smiling at the midwife yesterday who delivered you:
