Dear Hildegaard,
It took three tries to get you down for your nap today. In between these nap-attempts, we ate some rice and beans, found an earthworm outside and transferred it somewhat gently into a heap of nearby dirt, and watched a bit of The Heffalump Movie.
You were sad to leave the earthworm. You cried, pointing to the door, hands still caked in mud. When he squirmed in your hands, you got spooked and shrieked, dropped him, and ran away. But once inside, your bravery has returned. Now, you want to hold him again. I understand.
Everything is new to you. Everything is amazing and terrifying and confusing and beautiful.
When you find something you love, like ice cream, the swing-set at the park, or an earthworm, you don’t want it to end. You clap your hands and celebrate things that we, as adults, walk right by without any ceremony or acknowledgement. And when a good thing ends, you grieve that ending with your whole body. Your forehead gets blotchy and pink. You mourn the loss because you understood the value.
I think maybe you have it right.
You are finally asleep. You’ve been taking books to bed with you. You flip through them in the dark and I wonder if you know them by heart now, after all the times we’ve read them. Sometimes, on the baby monitor, I can see you lying on your back, touching each page as you stare up at the ceiling, as if reading braille.
As daddy often tells you: I love everything about you.
I wonder when we stopped being amazed.