Dear Baboo,

You are not, despite all of your efforts to commence rule of the Universe at such an early age, yet able to read, but Mommy needs to pretend right now that she’s able to leave a little note for you. Something for you to find tomorrow when you wake up and she’s not there. A message to you, from your Ma, saying how much she loves you and how much she misses you already and how much she’s going to miss kissing your chubby little legs and your apple cheeks and your sweet downy head. How she’s going to ache for your sweet laugh, for your sweet smile.

How she misses you. How she will miss you every moment until the moment that she returns.

But she can’t leave that message. You’ll wake, and she won’t be there, and you’ll turn to Da, and your smile will be for him. He’ll love you enough for two, this weekend, while Mommy’s gone. You’ll hardly notice that she’s gone.

So I’m whispering these words to myself, really. This is for me. This is so that I can freeze you in time, right now, and hold onto this moment and carry it with me for the next four days and for ever after that.

Dear Babchi, my sweet little monkey, my petunia pie, my Miss Milly-Fo-Filly. You are eight and a half months old. You are the most beautiful creature on this earth.

You are just over 30 inches long, a tall girl already. When the man at the farmer’s market insisted upon letting you sit on his vegetable scale a few weeks ago, you weighed in at nearly 19 pounds. More than a watermelon; not quite as much as a bushel of apples.

Your eyes are bright and blue and sparkle with the light of a million giggles. You are always smiling, even when your sweet lips are downturned. You make me smile, always.

Your first teeth came in just over a week ago, and now they peek out when you smile, two little pearls. You use them to munch on the cucumber that you so love: you bring the stick of cucumber to your mouth and nibble away like a bunny. Then you shove it all into your cheeks and grab for more.

You love cucumber. You also love watermelon, and wholewheat bread from Ace Bakery, lightly toasted, and avocado, and slices of tofu with melted cheddar cheese. The slices of tofu with cheese, we called them tofu soldiers, until your Da challenged the name. Now we call them peacekeepers. You love them. You grab a slice in each fist and lick the cheese and nibble and then, as with the cucumber, you stuff it all in your cheeks.

You can fit a lot in your cheeks.

You have the sweetest cheeks.

You love pressing your cheeks against mine when we hug. If I say ‘kisses,’ you purse your little lips and brush my nose and then pull your face back and look me in the eye and laugh out loud.

You love to steal my glasses. You love to take them off of my face and then try to put them back.

You love peek-a-boo. You love the cats. You love your little wooden castanets, and your blocks, and your books. You so love your books: you pull them out, one at a time, from the book carriage, and sit, patiently working the pages, turning the pages, before hooting at me or your Da to come read.

You love life. You greet each day with a hoot and a fart and a smile.

You love me. And you have taught me that love can not only fill one’s whole heart, but that it can fill one’s soul completely, and one’s whole being, and make one feel such joy, such unrestrained joy, that it seems that one’s own little heart and being cannot contain it.

You are love. You are my heart.

I will ache, missing you this weekend. But I’ll be okay. You will too. Better than okay: you and your Da will play and laugh and love and each day will sparkle and shimmer and you will be happy.

And because you will be happy, I will be happy.

With so much love,

Mommy

In case anyone is wondering, yes, I will miss the Husband, too. But we’ve endured times apart before, and we’re big kids; we know how to finesse each other’s absence, how to tuck that extra pillow behind our shouders just so, the better to imagine that the other still sleeps alongside us. We know how to do this.

I don’t know how to ‘do’ the separation from WonderBaby, how to endure the absence that will surely press upon me, ache and echo like a gaping hole in the middle of my chest. This is entirely new. And scary.

Okay, well, one thing that I do know: I will fill that gaping hole with liquor.

AM SO FREAKING EXCITED OMG.

**********

I’ll be posting from BlogHer. And, all of those Mupproustian interview links that y’all are sending me? I’ll link a few with each BlogHer post (and into next week with the post-BlogHer posts), with select Muppet Guest Star profiles… (and, in the meantime, if you’re looking for some Red! Hot! Blogger! Profiles! check here…)

And I’ll be raising my glass to all of you, for sure.

Wish me good times (and lightness of heart)!

Um, this is me. Substitute martini glass for child.