Dear Helmet

Dear Helmet,

You stink.

I know, I know. He's smiling. He appears to be relatively happy, and apart from you waking him up in the middle of the night most nights, he seems to be fine with you living on his head.

But I don't like you.

You really do stink.

Like the shoes of a thirteen-year-old boy.

And worse, you are a cuddle barrier.

This weekend I watched a mom nuzzle her nearly-the-same-age baby. She buried her nose in his neck, and cuddled him up close.

There's nothing cuddly about your hard, plastic outer shell.

Even when I go to kiss those oh-so-chubby cheeks, I inevitably bonk my nose, or bridge of my nose, or forehead somewhere on you.

So I did something about it.

Reid spent the weekend without you. His stuffy nose and cough were making him miserable enough and he actually reached up and tried to brush you off his head.

Oh those cuddles...I savored every single one.

The truth, my friend, is that you provide this sad disconnect between me and my baby. And I don't know that I would have understood that there could be such a thing unless I had experienced this.

I felt incredibly close to Reid this weekend--more than I have since August when you arrived to the party.

Blue helmet buzz kill.

And so just like that, I'm over you.

Tomorrow we go to the lady who said you were necessary. It's like the trip to the orthodontist where you pray he says your braces can come off. You think your teeth are straight enough--why can't he see that too?!

I know Reid has made great progress, but he still has a ways to go.

So I look on the bright side: a kick ass Halloween costume is just around the corner, and you Mr. Helmet, will be the star of the show.

Until then, take a bath, will ya?

Sincerely,
Reid's mom