I’ve decided to start writing again.
I pop my head up periodically to make that statement and then slink away quietly after a couple weeks of spinning my wheels.
I have the best of intentions but my follow through sucks. There’s an extensive laundry list of why my plan never sticks. I usually blame it on life getting busy and time being short, but really those are just handy excuses to explain my fear of failure.
I let myself put writing aside because after four years of studying all day and working all night I wanted to have a little fun. Then not writing because the status quo and I found other things to fill the time I used to devote to writing. Later on, when I tried to go back I started to second guess myself and fretted that I didn’t have the chops to be a writer. I was so rusty that when I compared my work to that of my colleagues and my friends I was painfully aware of its short comings.
I was held back by doubt.
I told myself that writing would always be there for me when I had the time to devote to it. Nearly ten years later I realize just how effectively I’ve been lying to myself, convincing my vanity that the fault for my lack of output lay in circumstances beyond my control, when really I should have been taking a closer look at myself.
After co-opting a fellow lapsed writer and printing off a copy of HEINLEIN’S RULES FOR WRITING, by way of Robert Sawyer, I’ve made a promise to myself write again.
But I’m going to let myself be a terrible writer first.
I’m going to clear the cobwebs out of my brain and let out a couple of the ideas that are rattling around inside of my thinking meats. And I’m going to finish them. Then, I’m going to forgive myself for writing them so badly.
After which I’m going to pick up my pen (laptop) and try again. I may find that I’m a poor writer, although I’m hoping to at least be able to achieve the dubious status of mediocre.
But the point is I’m going to follow through. And if I suck and fail, well, at least I’ll be able to say I tried. I’m not quite sure how that’s better than deluding myself into thinking I’m a great writer with poor time management skills but it is.
This is something I really want, and I finally realized that fact in time to put the work into it.
Monday, January 9, 2012
A Letter to My Daughter on the Occasion of her Second Birthday
You have a personality now?! When did that happen?
Now granted, you’ve always had a personality, but it seems like every day you add a new range of expression and emotions. After a couple day’s at Nanna and Grandpa’s house you came back armed with a whole slew of new words. Before you used to be Claire the Baby, who did what she wanted and didn’t take shit from anyone. Now you’re Claire the Person, who does what she wants and still won’t take shit from anyone. The only difference is now you’re learning so quickly about what gets you results is that it’s hard to keep one step ahead of you, walking that tricky parental line that’s supposed to be about taking what you need and making it think it’s actually what you want.
Where do I start? There are so many milestones or moments of the past year that I’d love to immortalize, but every time I try to nail one down in my mind it slips away and sort of blurs into a larger, poorly defined memory that I simply call ‘Roo’.
There’s no mistaking that you’re a Mommy’s Girl. Daddy is definitely the runner up prize right now, even less if there happens to be a pet or a visiting family member in the room. You wipe off my kisses, spurn my hugs and angrily demand your mother take care of any and all tasks that involve you. Which is great when she’s in charge of reading stories before bedtime and somewhat less so she gets stuck with the shitty diapers.
I’ve read the books and I know it’s just a phase. And, I try really hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you push me away, but it’s like a little kick or punch to the heart every time. I can see your teenage years now, armed with a whole arsenal of words that hurt the emotional wiliness to use them. That’s going to suck. (It also makes me wish I’d treated my own parents better during some of the more emotional times. But understanding is easier when you’ve got twenty years’ worth of hindsight on the subject).
Your hair is always a mess. Always. The back of your head looks like an angry birds nest all the time. No matter how often we come it out or try some magical hair product on it, it always looks like you’ve spend the last twenty minutes sitting outside in galeforce winds. Your mother used to say it was just because you a newborn and slept on your back, now I don’t think even she has any idea what’s going.
Speaking of which, your mother keeps insisting on cutting your bangs so your hair isn’t in your eyes. I’d prefer to just push your hair back in a clip, but since you can’t stand to have one in your hair cutting it back is just easier. Only your mom apparently can’t cut a straight line to save her life. Of the two times she’s trimmed your bangs this year I had to come in after the fact and fix it up. Not because I’m so kind aesthetical genius, but rather you get so excited whenever your mother is around that I think its hard for you to keep still.
Your memory is amazing. Many months after the fact you remember important details that even grownups would be hard pressed to remember. You recall the names of your great aunt’s lama (Migo and Nefi), the time you fell out of your high chair (bumpa head) and the name of the little girl who went to stopped going to daycare with you nearly a year ago. And yet you’re stunned that ever night is tooth brushing night, like it’s something you’ve never seen before. Talk about selective memory.
You are utterly fearless. Even now as you grow up and the idea of your actions having consequences start to seep in. You’re not afraid of the dark, after 5 minutes you completely lose any sense of stranger danger around new people (double edged sword that one, we’ll have to work on that) you love meeting new kids, new animals, playing around in new situations, jumping in a pool, or a boat or swimming in the lake. When I flip you around on my shoulders or slide with you across the wooden floor you’re always game for another round. “Again!” has been your favourite word for a long time now and is likely to be this way for quite some time to come.
We got to go out West in May to visit family and it was probably the worst family vacation we’ll ever have. At the very least I think it will set the standard for some time to come. We think you got sick in the hospital when you went with Mommy to see your cousin Ayla be born. The end result was a diarrhea and stomach bug that laid you (and everyone you came in contact with) out for a couple weeks. All we wanted to do was stay in bed and feel miserable but instead we had to attend family events and generally try to just tough it out. There were a couple bad nights there where you soiled everything you came in contact with and we had to use Great-Grandma’s washing machine at 3 in the morning to clean things up. As a group we were one sorry bunch. The only saving grace was that you were so worn out that you slept almost the entire flight from B.C. back to Ontario.
As always, I love you like the dickens. You’re just old enough now that all the sharp points of the hallucinogenic fever dream of your first crazy year are starting to get smoothed out. It’s less about looking after you these days and more about getting to know who you are. I’m really looking forward to talking and conversing and learning with you in the years ahead. (Not math though, never math, that’s your mother’s forte.) I’m excited to get to know you. And as we enter your terrible twos I’m proud as hell to know that you’re not going to go through life being anyone’s stepping stool.
Love,
Dad
Now granted, you’ve always had a personality, but it seems like every day you add a new range of expression and emotions. After a couple day’s at Nanna and Grandpa’s house you came back armed with a whole slew of new words. Before you used to be Claire the Baby, who did what she wanted and didn’t take shit from anyone. Now you’re Claire the Person, who does what she wants and still won’t take shit from anyone. The only difference is now you’re learning so quickly about what gets you results is that it’s hard to keep one step ahead of you, walking that tricky parental line that’s supposed to be about taking what you need and making it think it’s actually what you want.
Where do I start? There are so many milestones or moments of the past year that I’d love to immortalize, but every time I try to nail one down in my mind it slips away and sort of blurs into a larger, poorly defined memory that I simply call ‘Roo’.
There’s no mistaking that you’re a Mommy’s Girl. Daddy is definitely the runner up prize right now, even less if there happens to be a pet or a visiting family member in the room. You wipe off my kisses, spurn my hugs and angrily demand your mother take care of any and all tasks that involve you. Which is great when she’s in charge of reading stories before bedtime and somewhat less so she gets stuck with the shitty diapers.
I’ve read the books and I know it’s just a phase. And, I try really hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you push me away, but it’s like a little kick or punch to the heart every time. I can see your teenage years now, armed with a whole arsenal of words that hurt the emotional wiliness to use them. That’s going to suck. (It also makes me wish I’d treated my own parents better during some of the more emotional times. But understanding is easier when you’ve got twenty years’ worth of hindsight on the subject).
Your hair is always a mess. Always. The back of your head looks like an angry birds nest all the time. No matter how often we come it out or try some magical hair product on it, it always looks like you’ve spend the last twenty minutes sitting outside in galeforce winds. Your mother used to say it was just because you a newborn and slept on your back, now I don’t think even she has any idea what’s going.
Speaking of which, your mother keeps insisting on cutting your bangs so your hair isn’t in your eyes. I’d prefer to just push your hair back in a clip, but since you can’t stand to have one in your hair cutting it back is just easier. Only your mom apparently can’t cut a straight line to save her life. Of the two times she’s trimmed your bangs this year I had to come in after the fact and fix it up. Not because I’m so kind aesthetical genius, but rather you get so excited whenever your mother is around that I think its hard for you to keep still.
Your memory is amazing. Many months after the fact you remember important details that even grownups would be hard pressed to remember. You recall the names of your great aunt’s lama (Migo and Nefi), the time you fell out of your high chair (bumpa head) and the name of the little girl who went to stopped going to daycare with you nearly a year ago. And yet you’re stunned that ever night is tooth brushing night, like it’s something you’ve never seen before. Talk about selective memory.
You are utterly fearless. Even now as you grow up and the idea of your actions having consequences start to seep in. You’re not afraid of the dark, after 5 minutes you completely lose any sense of stranger danger around new people (double edged sword that one, we’ll have to work on that) you love meeting new kids, new animals, playing around in new situations, jumping in a pool, or a boat or swimming in the lake. When I flip you around on my shoulders or slide with you across the wooden floor you’re always game for another round. “Again!” has been your favourite word for a long time now and is likely to be this way for quite some time to come.
We got to go out West in May to visit family and it was probably the worst family vacation we’ll ever have. At the very least I think it will set the standard for some time to come. We think you got sick in the hospital when you went with Mommy to see your cousin Ayla be born. The end result was a diarrhea and stomach bug that laid you (and everyone you came in contact with) out for a couple weeks. All we wanted to do was stay in bed and feel miserable but instead we had to attend family events and generally try to just tough it out. There were a couple bad nights there where you soiled everything you came in contact with and we had to use Great-Grandma’s washing machine at 3 in the morning to clean things up. As a group we were one sorry bunch. The only saving grace was that you were so worn out that you slept almost the entire flight from B.C. back to Ontario.
As always, I love you like the dickens. You’re just old enough now that all the sharp points of the hallucinogenic fever dream of your first crazy year are starting to get smoothed out. It’s less about looking after you these days and more about getting to know who you are. I’m really looking forward to talking and conversing and learning with you in the years ahead. (Not math though, never math, that’s your mother’s forte.) I’m excited to get to know you. And as we enter your terrible twos I’m proud as hell to know that you’re not going to go through life being anyone’s stepping stool.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Saying goodbye
I was 13 when I learned that my grandmother wasn’t actually my grandmother, well, not by blood anyway.
As far as earth shattering news goes this was pretty much a non-event. What it did do was go a long way towards explaining some of the people who would periodically show up at family gatherings. And that picture on my mother’s night stand of the red headed woman, who I’d never actually met, suddenly made a lot more sense.
My grandmother died last Thursday of complications from a perforated bowel. Her health had been flagging in recent years and while everyone knew she was generally unwell the news that there was now some sort of ephemeral life clock counting down to zero was like a punch to the gut.
I’ve been fairly blessed in my life not to have had to truly experience the pain that the death of a loved one can bring. My great-grandmother died when I was very young and about 8 years ago my grandfather passed away. And that’s about it. In the grand scheme of things, those are pretty small numbers.
My grandmother could be a complicated, even prickly woman. As I grew older I was exposed more often to the tensions that came from joining two fully developed families into one. The melding wasn’t always harmonious. For reasons, never satisfactorily explained to me, my mother and uncles had been at times cool to this new woman in their father’s life.
And while the hatchet has been slowly buried over the years, in no small part to shelter us grandchildren, there was no doubting that my grandmother never forgot being slighted. And as the grandkids grew up into adult types in our own right the veneer of civility could sometimes wear a little thin. Holidays and special occasions would be notable by her absence as she chose to spend that time with her ‘other family’. And when she took my grandfather with her there would sometimes be hurt feelings and unhappiness.
In retrospect I think we were unfair to her. Now married, with a daughter of my own, I know full well how difficult it can be to please everyone when it comes to making the rounds on holidays. Some days it’s just impossible to please everyone.
But I never felt, not for an instant, that she was anything other than a loving grandmother.
I have so many great memories of her. So many stories of our time together that are mine alone to tell now. Like how, at four, when we went to Florida I picked up a dirty paper bag and couldn’t be made to let it go. Or when, at University, she’d take me out to lunch and wrap up the bread on the table in a napkin (and whatever condiments that weren’t nailed down) and stuff them in her purse to give to me in the car. (I was clearly a starving student who needed the food.)
Whenever she visited it was my job to keep her entertained. That usually meant endless games of cribbage until dinner was ready. Whenever we counted up our points at the end of each hand she always seemed to find one or two that I’d missed. She always told me that the little old ladies she normally played with would have eaten me alive if I played like that with them.
Nana died about a week after her initial diagnosis. I managed to see her twice in that time. On her deathbed she taught me that even when the end is near we’re still the same beautifully flawed and wonderfully generous people we’ve always been. She was just as fierce and strong on that hospital bed as I have ever seen her. And I am eternally grateful I had the opportunity to say good bye and let her know just how much I loved her.
At the funeral the tears and laughter of those who loved her was as fitting a tribute as any words I could ever string together. The joy and sorrow managed to bring two families together in a way we’ve never managed before.
Nana loved, laughed, fought, cried and was loved in return. That’s a life well lived and a legacy I plan to carry with me.
As far as earth shattering news goes this was pretty much a non-event. What it did do was go a long way towards explaining some of the people who would periodically show up at family gatherings. And that picture on my mother’s night stand of the red headed woman, who I’d never actually met, suddenly made a lot more sense.
My grandmother died last Thursday of complications from a perforated bowel. Her health had been flagging in recent years and while everyone knew she was generally unwell the news that there was now some sort of ephemeral life clock counting down to zero was like a punch to the gut.
I’ve been fairly blessed in my life not to have had to truly experience the pain that the death of a loved one can bring. My great-grandmother died when I was very young and about 8 years ago my grandfather passed away. And that’s about it. In the grand scheme of things, those are pretty small numbers.
My grandmother could be a complicated, even prickly woman. As I grew older I was exposed more often to the tensions that came from joining two fully developed families into one. The melding wasn’t always harmonious. For reasons, never satisfactorily explained to me, my mother and uncles had been at times cool to this new woman in their father’s life.
And while the hatchet has been slowly buried over the years, in no small part to shelter us grandchildren, there was no doubting that my grandmother never forgot being slighted. And as the grandkids grew up into adult types in our own right the veneer of civility could sometimes wear a little thin. Holidays and special occasions would be notable by her absence as she chose to spend that time with her ‘other family’. And when she took my grandfather with her there would sometimes be hurt feelings and unhappiness.
In retrospect I think we were unfair to her. Now married, with a daughter of my own, I know full well how difficult it can be to please everyone when it comes to making the rounds on holidays. Some days it’s just impossible to please everyone.
But I never felt, not for an instant, that she was anything other than a loving grandmother.
I have so many great memories of her. So many stories of our time together that are mine alone to tell now. Like how, at four, when we went to Florida I picked up a dirty paper bag and couldn’t be made to let it go. Or when, at University, she’d take me out to lunch and wrap up the bread on the table in a napkin (and whatever condiments that weren’t nailed down) and stuff them in her purse to give to me in the car. (I was clearly a starving student who needed the food.)
Whenever she visited it was my job to keep her entertained. That usually meant endless games of cribbage until dinner was ready. Whenever we counted up our points at the end of each hand she always seemed to find one or two that I’d missed. She always told me that the little old ladies she normally played with would have eaten me alive if I played like that with them.
Nana died about a week after her initial diagnosis. I managed to see her twice in that time. On her deathbed she taught me that even when the end is near we’re still the same beautifully flawed and wonderfully generous people we’ve always been. She was just as fierce and strong on that hospital bed as I have ever seen her. And I am eternally grateful I had the opportunity to say good bye and let her know just how much I loved her.
At the funeral the tears and laughter of those who loved her was as fitting a tribute as any words I could ever string together. The joy and sorrow managed to bring two families together in a way we’ve never managed before.
Nana loved, laughed, fought, cried and was loved in return. That’s a life well lived and a legacy I plan to carry with me.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A letter to my daughter on the occasion of her first birthday
The inspiration to write this note to you came about in a very un-inspiring way. I was leaning over your crib, a little after midnight, trying to see if I could get a whiff of that tell tale scent that would let me know if you needed a diaper change. (You’d been sporting a bit of a diaper rash lately and the last thing I wanted was for you to be sleeping in a dirty diaper.)
Thankfully I came up empty handed. But before I left the room I took a moment to watch you as you slept, (creepy I know), and I couldn’t help but think that it was going to be a real shame that some day I was going to forget all about this moment.
There wasn’t anything particularly memorable about the scene. It was the same kind of thing I’ve been doing for a few months now and it had simply become part of my nightly routine before bed. All in all, it was a small, perfectly forgettable situation but for whatever reason the emotional ups and downs of the previous year crept up on me and I knew that it was important that I get this all out now before the feeling passed.
When we first found out we were pregnant we got a lot of advice from friends who suggested that we take advantage of these last child free moments to live life to the fullest. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. We had to spend our time selling our condo downtown and looking for a new house. And when we did move we had a lot of work to do getting the house fixed up in preparation for your arrival. It was a very busy time and I don’t think either one of us ever felt like we had a moment to just sit back and appreciate what was about to happen.
You showed up late.
We had to wait a week after your expected due date to see you. The days seemed to pass so slowly. With the growing anticipation it was a bit like waiting for Christmas, only you didn’t know the date Christmas was going to come. It could be three hours or three days from now.
I was at work when I got the call and I rushed home. Your mother picked me up at the train station and I drove us to the doctor’s office. After a quick discussion the doctor decided it was time for you to join us. We rushed to the hospital. Your grandparents and your aunts came and everyone was very excited. Pretty soon they had to leave the room though; you were coming faster than the doctor expected.
I remember the delivery room was very crowded. It was my job to brace your mother’s leg and count down how long she should push for. I was so nervous and excited I kept speeding up the count and the doctor had to tell me to slow down. But your mom was such a greater pusher, ask anyone, that the whole thing was over very fast.
I remember seeing your head. Your eyes popped open and you were looking around, angry at something it seemed. Then you opened your mouth and started screaming. (You didn’t stop crying for another twelve hours.) As the doctor passed you to your mother I shouted, “it’s a girl, a girl!”
Its impossible for me to describe what it felt like to see you for the first time. I was lightheaded and my knees seemed about to give away on me. I remember leaving the room briefly to tell everyone that you had arrived and feeling like my heart was to big for my chest.
I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you. I don’t think I’ve ever felt love erupt out of nothing to instantly become a raging bonfire. The transformation to crazily overprotective father was nearly instantaneous.
But there were some low times as well. The first few months were very trying. You weren’t a big fan of eating and you hated sleeping even more. And you cried, you cried all the time. I used to come home from work and strap you into the Baby Bjorn, walking up and down the hall with you for hours and hours. Sometimes I’d sing, sometimes I’d hum and sometimes I was even successful at getting you to sleep. But mostly we all just tried to tough it out.
You mother and I were often delirious from a lack of sleep. Some nights your mom would go to sleep at 7 or 8 o’clock, just so she could rest for a few hours before I would try to come to bed at midnight or so.
We were pushed as close to the edge as I think two people can go. But somehow we managed to get through it. A good thing too, because I would have missed so many wonderful things.
One of the qualities that I love most about you is that you’re a fighter which, considering your parentage, means you come by it honestly. The same drive that makes you fight sleep or refuse to be held, because being held means sitting still and that’s NO GOOD, is utterly captivating. There’s a fire in your belly, one that’s going to cause me no end of grief when you get older.
I watched you struggle for days to roll over on to your belly and the second you mastered the technique it was like you born to roll your entire life. The next thing I know you’re doing your best impression of the log driver’s waltz and bumping into walls and furniture because you just couldn’t remain still. The same was true when you learnt to crawl. You used to drag yourself along by your hands, legs dangling limply behind you, in some kind of bizarre dead man’s crawl because you just couldn’t wait long enough for the rest of you to figure it all out.
And now you’re walking, which adds another chaotic dimension to everything. If want something you don’t have to wait for one of us to bring it to you anymore, you can go and track it down by yourself. And that means climbing up stairs, climbing down stairs, emptying shelves and boxes, doing endless laps around the kitchen island and terrorizing the poor cat who has suddenly discovered he really isn’t safe anywhere now.
And its all fascinating to watch.
There isn’t enough time. Each day you seem to grow up a little more. Every day you’re a whole new person and the little bits of time I get with you here and there are never enough. You’re barely a year old and I’m already lamenting, not-so-quietly to myself, that everything is happening too fast.
There are a lot of milestones in the days ahead of us, ones that I know you’ll hurdle past with barely a thought. But to me those occasions are moments in time that I will hold onto for years to come.
I hope one day you’ll read this letter and we can sit around and talk about what you were like when you were a baby. And I hope that when that happens you’ll have a story or two of your own about the things you remember growing up. And maybe, if I’m really lucky, it will jog my memory and I’ll recall some of those small, not-so-important moments that end up meaning so much. But that’s a story for later. Today I’m just looking forward to going home and seeing the smile that lights up your face when I walk through the door. Right now, that’s all the pick me up I need.
Thankfully I came up empty handed. But before I left the room I took a moment to watch you as you slept, (creepy I know), and I couldn’t help but think that it was going to be a real shame that some day I was going to forget all about this moment.
There wasn’t anything particularly memorable about the scene. It was the same kind of thing I’ve been doing for a few months now and it had simply become part of my nightly routine before bed. All in all, it was a small, perfectly forgettable situation but for whatever reason the emotional ups and downs of the previous year crept up on me and I knew that it was important that I get this all out now before the feeling passed.
When we first found out we were pregnant we got a lot of advice from friends who suggested that we take advantage of these last child free moments to live life to the fullest. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. We had to spend our time selling our condo downtown and looking for a new house. And when we did move we had a lot of work to do getting the house fixed up in preparation for your arrival. It was a very busy time and I don’t think either one of us ever felt like we had a moment to just sit back and appreciate what was about to happen.
You showed up late.
We had to wait a week after your expected due date to see you. The days seemed to pass so slowly. With the growing anticipation it was a bit like waiting for Christmas, only you didn’t know the date Christmas was going to come. It could be three hours or three days from now.
I was at work when I got the call and I rushed home. Your mother picked me up at the train station and I drove us to the doctor’s office. After a quick discussion the doctor decided it was time for you to join us. We rushed to the hospital. Your grandparents and your aunts came and everyone was very excited. Pretty soon they had to leave the room though; you were coming faster than the doctor expected.
I remember the delivery room was very crowded. It was my job to brace your mother’s leg and count down how long she should push for. I was so nervous and excited I kept speeding up the count and the doctor had to tell me to slow down. But your mom was such a greater pusher, ask anyone, that the whole thing was over very fast.
I remember seeing your head. Your eyes popped open and you were looking around, angry at something it seemed. Then you opened your mouth and started screaming. (You didn’t stop crying for another twelve hours.) As the doctor passed you to your mother I shouted, “it’s a girl, a girl!”
Its impossible for me to describe what it felt like to see you for the first time. I was lightheaded and my knees seemed about to give away on me. I remember leaving the room briefly to tell everyone that you had arrived and feeling like my heart was to big for my chest.
I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you. I don’t think I’ve ever felt love erupt out of nothing to instantly become a raging bonfire. The transformation to crazily overprotective father was nearly instantaneous.
But there were some low times as well. The first few months were very trying. You weren’t a big fan of eating and you hated sleeping even more. And you cried, you cried all the time. I used to come home from work and strap you into the Baby Bjorn, walking up and down the hall with you for hours and hours. Sometimes I’d sing, sometimes I’d hum and sometimes I was even successful at getting you to sleep. But mostly we all just tried to tough it out.
You mother and I were often delirious from a lack of sleep. Some nights your mom would go to sleep at 7 or 8 o’clock, just so she could rest for a few hours before I would try to come to bed at midnight or so.
We were pushed as close to the edge as I think two people can go. But somehow we managed to get through it. A good thing too, because I would have missed so many wonderful things.
One of the qualities that I love most about you is that you’re a fighter which, considering your parentage, means you come by it honestly. The same drive that makes you fight sleep or refuse to be held, because being held means sitting still and that’s NO GOOD, is utterly captivating. There’s a fire in your belly, one that’s going to cause me no end of grief when you get older.
I watched you struggle for days to roll over on to your belly and the second you mastered the technique it was like you born to roll your entire life. The next thing I know you’re doing your best impression of the log driver’s waltz and bumping into walls and furniture because you just couldn’t remain still. The same was true when you learnt to crawl. You used to drag yourself along by your hands, legs dangling limply behind you, in some kind of bizarre dead man’s crawl because you just couldn’t wait long enough for the rest of you to figure it all out.
And now you’re walking, which adds another chaotic dimension to everything. If want something you don’t have to wait for one of us to bring it to you anymore, you can go and track it down by yourself. And that means climbing up stairs, climbing down stairs, emptying shelves and boxes, doing endless laps around the kitchen island and terrorizing the poor cat who has suddenly discovered he really isn’t safe anywhere now.
And its all fascinating to watch.
There isn’t enough time. Each day you seem to grow up a little more. Every day you’re a whole new person and the little bits of time I get with you here and there are never enough. You’re barely a year old and I’m already lamenting, not-so-quietly to myself, that everything is happening too fast.
There are a lot of milestones in the days ahead of us, ones that I know you’ll hurdle past with barely a thought. But to me those occasions are moments in time that I will hold onto for years to come.
I hope one day you’ll read this letter and we can sit around and talk about what you were like when you were a baby. And I hope that when that happens you’ll have a story or two of your own about the things you remember growing up. And maybe, if I’m really lucky, it will jog my memory and I’ll recall some of those small, not-so-important moments that end up meaning so much. But that’s a story for later. Today I’m just looking forward to going home and seeing the smile that lights up your face when I walk through the door. Right now, that’s all the pick me up I need.
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