You sounded like a dictionary falling off a table when you hit the floor with a thump this morning. You were sitting up, and then you were falling down.
After a moment of stunned silence, you cried.
And I picked you up, and held you, and you cried into my shoulder as I thought about the blog I posted not six hours earlier.
Throughout your whole life, when you cry, we will comfort you. And we will be strong for you, and try not to let you know that when you cry, we’re not only comforting you, but we’re crying with you, too. And we know the day will come, when we’ll be able to do nothing but just cry together.
Seven weeks ago tonight, we brought you home.
We’ve learned so much about each other . . . we can hear the difference between when you’re hungry, or wet, or tired. You’ve learned that you can melt our hearts with your toothless, chubby cheek smile and your laugh that fills a room.
It continues to boggle my mind to consider our great blessing to have you with us and to try to imagine the next 30 years of joy and happiness and tears and sadness and what a wonderful life we will have.