Dear Laney,
When I walked out to the baggage claim area of the airport, you and your dad were there waiting for me. When you saw me coming, you clapped and squealed and came running toward me. Now I know what it feels like to be a Fudgesicle.
We celebrated my homecoming with a ticker-tape parade chips n' salsa.
I don't know if I ever told you this (I'm getting old, so I might start repeating myself, the way Grandpa Ron loves to repeatedly tell that story about that hot young thing in Hawaii who demanded a kiss. Haven't heard that one yet? Ask him), but even when I was pregnant with you, you loved Mexican food. I would eat a big combination plate at the Mexican place, and you would start to do a dance in my tummy that your dad and I called "Enchiladas? Hell, yeah!!"
Your dad says you get your love of chips and salsa from Uncle Nate. Maybe. All I know is that the stuff is spicy as heck and you're still not impressed. Maybe you have some hidden Latin heritage mixed in with all those Norwegians and Germans.
In any case, I'm glad to be home.
My first night back, you woke up every hour and yelled "Mama?" like you were taking attendance.
Yes, sweet girl, I'm here. Now go to sleep.
Love,
Mom
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