Dear Little Baby,

I know that we all need to relax sometimes. You know, let loose, kick up our heels. But the thing is, Little Baby, when you kick up your heels, they get lodged in my rib cage, making it feel like I have swallowed knobby chicken bones. It hurts.

Like on Saturday night, at your second cousin Liz's wedding (or is she your first cousin once removed?). Maybe you liked the escargot, and the shrimp, and the virgin mary, and the crab legs, and the delicious italian meats and cheeses. Maybe you were enjoying the voices of your Aunts Lori and Mary Beth, or Uncles Dan and Dan, or it could have been the original Miss Eva, after whom you will be named...But why did you have to stick those knobby things into my ribs before dinner was served? And no amount of rubbing, or stretching, or muttered "cut it outs" would make them move. I even danced. DANCED. IN HEELS. And you know how my sciatica is killing me.

Still why would you not move? I wasn't even sure those were your heels until that moment, when back in the car with your Grams, headed onto the LIE, I felt one of those knobby lumps slide out from under my ribs, bumping along my hand as it did so. And then, the other one. Oh merciful babe, you made me so happy then. Even happier than half a glass of champagne sipped over the course of three hours.

Love,

Mommy.

PS. Don't even get me started about Sunday, when you insisted on rolling around in the opposite direction of the rocking ferry until I THREW UP, all over EVERYTHING. In public, with no Daddy around to help me clean it up.