Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Dear Kaden,

I hope when I am old and gray, I can dig up the memory of you in my old IHOP apron, a souvenir from my poor college days.  That, in the recesses of my memory, I'll still be able to see the preschool version of you, my little sous-chef: shaggy, blond hair; gold-flecked brown eyes; chipped front tooth; still wearing pajamas in the middle of the day.  

 Your nose, eyelashes, and cheeks dusted with flour.

 Your little boy fingers gripping a whisk,

 steadying a glass bowl on the counter.

 I won't be able to remember if we made cookies or muffins.  If we baked bread or a souffle.  But that doesn't matter.

 I just want to be able to find that memory of you, standing on a dining room chair so you could reach the counter.  Dozens of memories really, of us creating something in the kitchen together.

I hope I can conjure those up when you are grown, and my heart is aching to feel like a mommy again.

I love you, buddy.


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