Dear Bean:
I’m more and more convinced that
that is my nickname for you. Your papa calls you Paws, your mama calls you
Chicken. I’ve been looking but none have quite fit: Rawr, Potpie. But Bean,
something almost fits. One evening I whispered it to you and it feels right.
Still I will whisper to you how much I love you.
There is a shift in the world
since you arrived. It’s been 3 months to the day today, and I know it’s been
felt by many people. For me, the day-to-day has evolved to see you each
afternoon—time that I would not trade for anything. Your mama and I spend a lot
of time passing you back and forth. The other night you were on her lap and I
leaned in to kiss you. You bobbed your head and then smiled at me—the greatest
smile I’ve ever seen. Your mama grinned: that’s quite a special smile there,
Chicken. You’re quite a special
girl.
Tonight we had a surprise party
for your dad. He turned 30 yesterday (I turned 27) and your mom and Gretchen
slung together a sweet little party for him, with the people here who love him
the most. You got a little over-stimulated and your mama passed you to me while
she got the ergo on to walk you around. I slung you on my forearm,
superman-sloth style, and started bouncing deep and slow, patting your back.
You calmed almost immediately and I could feel your little head, so like your
papa’s, bobbing on my arm. This is a new trick I’ve learned with you, the
bouncing, and it was thrilling to have you respond so quickly. Your mama
grinned a huge smile and said to our friends, see, this is why we keep her
around. Truth is, they couldn’t
get rid of me if they tried, and they know it. In my birthday card this year,
your dad said we’re an old-fashioned family and we love it that way. It’s true. I am grateful for them, and you; they
are grateful for me—not just in the larger sense but in the everyday. On good
days and bad we are each other’s lifelines and little graces, the hugs and
smiles and long conversations where we remember what family is for.
You know, I’ve been a surrogate
aunt since Miss Mae was 2. That’s 8 years of hugs and babysitting, driving the
Boy and Muffin to and from school, spending the night on Christmas Eve. They
taught me quite a lot about loving, and I figured that with you, it wouldn’t be
that much different. I was wrong. When you smile at me, when you fall asleep in
my arms, I look at you and see your dad’s noggin and your mom’s face. In the
way you snuggle with her and how you smile at my brother, the look on my dad’s
face when he holds you, in all of those I see nothing short of promise. More
than that, I see possibilities, hope, grace that stretches to fill the sky and
eclipse the sun. You will be more than I could ever imagine.
I don’t aim to put any pressure
on you. You be whoever you want to be, let that big personality and sharp brain
spill out and shine. As your Mimo and your mama like to say, you is kind,
you is smart, you is important. It’s
true. I thought I knew the feel of unconditional love. Again, I was wrong. Or
maybe not so much wrong. I can sincerely say that I would give a kidney to
anyone of my family, drop everything if they needed me, stand behind and beside
them. That’s what family does. With you, though—well, you are the only person
who can throw up on me or poop on me, drool on me, gum my arm, cry at me until
I think my ears might bleed just a little (you’ve never actually done that last
one). You’re the only one who can do that and find me happy when you do. Happy
might not be the right word…you can do all those things and still find me
patient and loving and even laughing. When I told you I’d love you without
question or agenda, I meant it. But before I met you, I didn’t know exactly how
much I meant it. Your mama said to you the other day I would run into
traffic for you, Chicken. She
would. You have so many people who love you so unbelievably much, you are lucky
but you are also light and grace and hope. And we are lucky. And if you needed
it, I too would run into traffic for you. You know I am your aunt. You know I
love you. And when you settle on my arm, droop your legs and chubby arms over
mine, let your head sink heavy to rest and close your eyes, I am grateful. More
than that I am home.
We moved a lot, in the last few
years. And those times I found again and again that it’s the people you love
who are your home. A house can soak that up, that ease of being, that comfort
that comes from the people in it sticking together no matter what. Foundations
and fences and walls and windows, they’re built from family. It’s funny, Bean.
You are not mine. You have two parents who love you and you belong to them. As
it should be, as is right. But as they are yours, so too am I. Take that as you
will, peanut. When you need a hand mine will be outstretched. And if you choose
to take it, the privilege is mine.
I never thought I’d end up here.
At 27 I am healthy. I have run marathons and weathered change and helped other
families. I have a job that I love. I have two cats who snuggle up when I am
sad and play with me when I am happy. On days when it rains, my soul settles.
And when it is sunny, I can soar. You’ll learn how to fly, Bean. You’ll cruise
and then when it’s right you’ll walk, finding your legs beneath you. You’ll
stretch out your arms and find the stars waiting to settle in your palms.
You know I love you. But I’ll
tell you anyway, every time I see you. Goodnight sweet girl. I hope you get
some rest and let your parents get some snoozes in too.
Kisses,
Auntie Ames
