"You will travel through a world of marvels..."
The news is almost always bad, almost all the time. Violence. Hate. Racism. Fires and floods. Hurricanes and tornadoes. They say it'll only get worse.
Every night at work, more darkness. Suffering and struggling. Crime. Death. I've been shaken to the core so much I'm not sure I can be anymore.
Then I come home to the world's most exuberant "Dada!." You drop what you're doing and come bounding to the door with absolute abandon. And for a little while the bad goes away. I just want to protect you from it all, for as long as I can.
What a delight it is to have someone greet you with a smile every single time they see you. What pure joy it is to watch you grow.
You love your baby sister. Anytime she cries you say her name as if to alert me or your mother that we need to check on her, or you go find her pacifier and bring to her.
The other day she was crying on the bed. I told you I needed to go check on her, but you said, "No, Dada." So I watched as you walked down the hall, into the bedroom on your own, stopped beside the bed and said her name. ("Har-har.") Then repeated it. Softly, sweetly.
You're fiercely independent -- insisting on buckling yourself in your high chair, taking off your own shoes and socks (and attempting at length but in vain to put them on), and "helping" Daddy take out the trash. Every Tuesday we can be seen ambling down the driveway, you with hands over your head on the handles, me with one hand helping to guide when you inevitably veer off course. My favorite may be when I open the door as we're about to leave and go somewhere, only to have you protest and proceed to close it, lock it, unlock it, and reopen it yourself.
Yet and still occasionally you can be so bashful, clinging with all your might to your mother or me.
At two years and two weeks you are at the average height and weight -- for a three-year-old. How lucky am I then that you like to be rocked and sang to sleep. It is a habit your mother isn't fond of me starting, but one I cherish.
You love music. Your favorite songs are "Believer" ("Rain"), "Thunder" ("Neenuh"), and "Barbara Ann" ("Baa-Baa").
You also love books. We read several to you every night. And morning. And at every nap time. Some I have memorized, like "The Paperboy." The best is when you "read" them to yourself, or to one of your stuffed animals.
And you absolutely love airplanes quite possibly more than anything. I feel confident in saying your ability to hear or spot one in the sky is unparalleled. I had never noticed how many planes flew over our house until you came along. Now? The sky is seemingly always offering up a vapor trail or three.
I remember not that long ago when you thought anything that flies -- birds, butterflies, helicopters, dragonflies -- was an airplane.
And I want to squeeze you and tell you that time is an airplane, and somehow be able to make you understand. Oh Lukie, it flies, so breathtakingly fast. Life is like one big vapor trail. At first seeming so long and grand, and then...
Every night at work, more darkness. Suffering and struggling. Crime. Death. I've been shaken to the core so much I'm not sure I can be anymore.
Then I come home to the world's most exuberant "Dada!." You drop what you're doing and come bounding to the door with absolute abandon. And for a little while the bad goes away. I just want to protect you from it all, for as long as I can.
What a delight it is to have someone greet you with a smile every single time they see you. What pure joy it is to watch you grow.
You love your baby sister. Anytime she cries you say her name as if to alert me or your mother that we need to check on her, or you go find her pacifier and bring to her.
The other day she was crying on the bed. I told you I needed to go check on her, but you said, "No, Dada." So I watched as you walked down the hall, into the bedroom on your own, stopped beside the bed and said her name. ("Har-har.") Then repeated it. Softly, sweetly.
You're fiercely independent -- insisting on buckling yourself in your high chair, taking off your own shoes and socks (and attempting at length but in vain to put them on), and "helping" Daddy take out the trash. Every Tuesday we can be seen ambling down the driveway, you with hands over your head on the handles, me with one hand helping to guide when you inevitably veer off course. My favorite may be when I open the door as we're about to leave and go somewhere, only to have you protest and proceed to close it, lock it, unlock it, and reopen it yourself.
Yet and still occasionally you can be so bashful, clinging with all your might to your mother or me.
At two years and two weeks you are at the average height and weight -- for a three-year-old. How lucky am I then that you like to be rocked and sang to sleep. It is a habit your mother isn't fond of me starting, but one I cherish.
You love music. Your favorite songs are "Believer" ("Rain"), "Thunder" ("Neenuh"), and "Barbara Ann" ("Baa-Baa").
You also love books. We read several to you every night. And morning. And at every nap time. Some I have memorized, like "The Paperboy." The best is when you "read" them to yourself, or to one of your stuffed animals.
And you absolutely love airplanes quite possibly more than anything. I feel confident in saying your ability to hear or spot one in the sky is unparalleled. I had never noticed how many planes flew over our house until you came along. Now? The sky is seemingly always offering up a vapor trail or three.
I remember not that long ago when you thought anything that flies -- birds, butterflies, helicopters, dragonflies -- was an airplane.
And I want to squeeze you and tell you that time is an airplane, and somehow be able to make you understand. Oh Lukie, it flies, so breathtakingly fast. Life is like one big vapor trail. At first seeming so long and grand, and then...
But you... you're two. You haven't even reached cruising altitude yet. The seatbelt sign is still on. You're looking out the window, filled with wonder, taking it all in.
I love you, buddy. Cherish each and every mile of your flight.
I love you, buddy. Cherish each and every mile of your flight.