Okay, okay, you’re right. This one I’m writing more for myself. It’ll probably help me through a rough patch with you when you’re older and hating me for being strict, embarrassing or just plain boring.

This summer you’ve really taken a liking to talking. You want and need to communicate. Constantly. Those frustrating moments where neither your dad nor I can understand what you’re saying are down to a minimum. I hate that frustration. I’m always afraid that you’ll think it’s your fault, that you’re not good enough, that it’s not worth the effort to try to communicate. Luckily, you’re smarter than that; you may have to scoff at us once in a while, shake your head and, exasperated, say “esta mamá…”, but you don’t give up.

One of the best feelings in the world is when you want to communicate love. Your method is infallible: whatever we say to you, you say back to us. Sometimes it doesn’t make much sense; like when I call you “mi pequeñísima” and you say it back.

Often, during those lovey dovey moments, I call you “preciosa”, and now you’ve started saying it back to me. While you hug me or put your hand on my cheek, you whisper: pesiosa…

Comments are closed.