My Dear June,
Today I stood in your nursery and watched the way the light made patterns on the wall and thought that if you were awake, you would have enjoyed watching it. And then I realized that it wasn’t too long ago that I had no idea the things you would like or what you would find interesting, and in just a few short months you have gone from a stranger to tiny human with likes and dislikes and a personality that is expanding and becoming more each day. I guess that’s what all this time we spend together will do—we’re learning each other, you and I, our patterns and rhythms and breaths and paces.
You sleep these days with your lips pursed—we call it your “June face”—with your hands tucked under your chins that are growing by the minute. When you wake up, you’ll stretch those hands high and wide for a full twenty minutes, and you’ll kick your legs and you’ll smile big and wide and finally, you’ll be ready to face the day—another day, when you will get bigger and longer and I will not notice because I will be so busy playing with you, calming you, changing you, feeding you—not until I pull out a favorite outfit from the closet and realize it is too tight around the waist, to short on those chubby legs of yours. Then I’ll fold that little outfit and put it away and try not to cry like I have been lately each time you outgrow a new thing, because I’m learning that each new day is like a thousand golden grains of sand slipping through my hands and I can’t catch or save them.