Dearest Butter:

Want to know how we can tell that you are loved?

Every sling and wrap that you ride in is covered in food stains. We don’t put you down, Butter bean, because you don’t like it. And we’re too selfish to put our hunger second to your comfort. That’s why the pesto on your blanket and the marinara on your Moby and the CheeseBoard crumbs on your Hotsling. You had beans and rice nestled in your neck when you were three hours old because Mama needed a burrito after 47 hours of labor but wouldn’t put you down even for a minute.

Your brother declared today that he’s tired of Mom and Dad being with you, and that he wants you to be just his. So he has plans to move to a house where it’s just the two of you. And even though he refuses to feed or clothe or wipe me, he said he will dress you and wipe your bottom and feed you candy sometimes. And, “if he looks like he’s going to die I’ll feed him something with protein, like a sandwich with almond butter.”

Mama invented something for you. Because the sounds you hear all day—chewing, typing, and occasional yelling—aren’t on the white noise machines available for purchase, she made a loop of the noises that help you sleep. She recorded tortas de aceite and blogging and cursing at your brother to play near your sleeping places. So you feel all comfy. You’re welcome.

You’ve actually had a few baths. Tonight you even had your first experience with Dr. Bronner’s soap-like substance. Don’t know why. You’re not dirty (except for the aforementioned burrito, but Mama dug those beans out of your neck weeks ago when she was in search of a snack). But you are just over the moon for warm water, so we bathe you. More often than we thought we could cram into our crowded weeks.

Tonight you went to bed with chocolate on your head. Not from mama, which is a first. No, tonight you had a small, four-year-old sized chocolatey lip print on your balding melon.

That’s how we know.

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