little letters to Lydia

dearest Lydia Grace.

Yesterday I took you to the grocery store for a little morning outing. You and I have been fighting a cold all week, and I was tired of being cooped up in the house (and I'm sure you were too). So off we went to Jim's Market.

As soon as we arrived, you had a welcoming committee. This is the single best and worst reason about living in a small town, Lydia...people keep tabs on you. Take it for whatever it means to you, but oh Lydia, if I were you I'd be flattered. I couldn't get you out of your car seat and into the cart fast enough; the bag boys had to comment on how big you were getting, and the lady who lives down the street commented on your pretty eyelashes. The checkout girls fawned over you until you had your gentle little smile stretched from ear to ear, drool running down your chin to the point of my just giving up on keeping you clean. Moms who had bigger kids with them would stop and reminisce with me about their baby days, and a pregnant mama said she hoped to have the same experience of shopping with her baby too. Everyone there seemed to know how small you were, and how big you've gotten.

Anyway, you and I strolled down the aisles, not saying much with words, but I could tell you were dazzled. So much to see! I gave you things to look at: a box of hot cereal packets, a bunch of bananas, a bag of frozen fruit. The shelves held your attention, and I found myself wondering about the days when you'll be old enough to communicate (ahem) that you want THAT. and THAT. and oh mama, please can I get this pleasepleasepleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease I'll clean my room every day for a year I swear I'll clean the litter box I won't ask for anything else ever again pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease! and then I'll have to explain that we don't eat whatever highly processed sugar-ridden crap you've wheedled about my buying, and then it'll be a long ride in the car home.

Or maybe not. We've lucked out so far...your dad and I comment from time to time that we better stop at one kid, because you can't beat perfect. Maybe you'll be the kid who begs me to buy blackberries (which I will), or will get a wild hair up her butt to make waffles, or cake, or something fun, and beg me to buy the ingredients for it so you and I can cook together at home (I will ALWAYS buy you ingredients, my little chefling).

I love you, my sweet little dumpling.

Mama