“The water’ll make your boo-boo feel better,” you said into the silence.
We were on our way to swim class. Daddy and Mommy talked about swimming with you afterwards. But Daddy had poison ivy on my forehead, and Mommy didn’t feel good and had to stay home. Although we planned to swim, we explained that we wouldn’t.
Daddy’s poison ivy.
“The water’ll make your boo-boo feel better,” you said from the back seat while we were driving.
You’d been quiet for a while and obviously had been thinking about it.
“The pool water wouldn’t be good on it,” Daddy said.
“You can wear a Band-Aid,” you quickly suggested.
“It’s too big for a Band-Aid.”
You have an incredibly kind heart.
Swim class appeared to be a success.
Retrieving the ring from the bottom.
For a little girl who didn’t fall asleep until after 10 and woke up before 7:30, you certainly have a lot of energy.
I enjoy history.
Your great grandfather, daddy’s grandfather, was a high school history teacher. I’ve written a couple of history books.
When I think about you, born in 2014, and I imagine the life you have in front of you, the years and decades ahead of you, it boggles my mind and takes my breath away. You will live to see a future beyond my imagination.
I was born in 1967.
In 2067, you’ll be 53.
When I’m 53, you’ll be six years-old.
The world has changed so much in my lifetime, from computers, to humans on the moon, to the international space station and satellites helping me navigate traffic with the computer I carry in my pocket and use to make phone calls and take pictures of you.
What sort of world will you grow up in? What wonderful things will you live to see? What magical things will you take for granted, that I can’t begin to imagine?
I so look forward to seeing the rest of my life through your eyes as you grow and learn and experience the world around us with wonder and awe. And I’ll continue to try to image the world I’ll leave behind, the world in which you’ll grow up, and the world in which you’ll raise your own child.