A couple nights ago you couldn’t sleep. You came to bed with me, and we spooned for a bit. After years and years of considering I may just be more of a fork, I realized a truth: You, me, right now, in this moment, are the perfect spoon.
Two years ago, as the sun was setting and Shabbat was beginning, I looked at you on my chest and had no clue how I could possibly love another little human as much as I loved your brother. Thinking to the rhythm of your tiny, newborn breaths, I worried about it. For a few days. For a few weeks. Back then, I had no idea how much I didn’t actually know.
One of the biggest lessons you’ve taught me so far is just how much I don’t know much about anything.
And, on that point, I wonder if you could ever know how amazing you are; I could certainly write pages trying to tell you. I get the feeling that will be the case, forever.
Meanwhile, how about this: I’m looking forward to so much.
To doing what you love with you.
To pretending with you.
To laughing with you.
To loving life with you.
To dreaming with you.
To figuring it all out with you.
Two years later, I know a lot more but I still don’t know so much.
Keep teaching me, Bebe.