Dear Adalyn

October 8, 2014

Dear Adalyn,

One day I hope you read this. In the story that is your life, these are but the first paragraphs, the beginning of who you’ll be. But to your dad and me, this chapter will be worn with re-reading, dog-eared with pages of favorite memories and lessons learned and moments that etch new lines into our fingerprints, our identity, with the knowledge of what it means to have a child. 

One day I hope you’ll wonder what you were like at two. I will tell you.  You are curious, edged with caution and watchfulness. You are spunky, hilarious, and quirky, and quite difficult to translate these days, although we have a list of your “words” that gets added to each day. You are busy; you are always running, the cloth diapers giving you a distinct side-to-side waddle that makes it impossible not to smile watching you.  You are absolutely exhausting some days, and yet you somehow reserve copious amounts of energy for bedtime.  You read. You play, you roll around in grass and race through playgrounds.  You barely eat but love to cook, and will empty half the spice rack into a bowl of water to stir if we’re not watching.  You jump and dance and attempt handstands regularly.  You color, you climb, you chase Wallie to every corner of the yard.  You try everything, and you talk, and you learn in leaps that make us stop and marvel that you are becoming an actual human.  You love your people, and you have a village unlike any other who do nothing but play with you, laugh with you, and cherish you. 

One day, two years will seem like nothing.  But today, I can’t believe it’s been two years since you were rolling and turning and kicking inside my belly the morning we went to the hospital.  I can’t believe that two years ago, you were only 6 pounds, dark-haired, and a tiny ball curled up on your dad’s chest, while I looked at you two in sleepy wonder at 3am, thinking how could life be so sweet. 

One day, when you look back on these letters, I hope you get a glimpse of what you give to us as our daughter.  I hope you feel how much you matter.  I hope you realize how much light and warmth fills our home because your feet pad through it, because your voice echoes to the walls, pretending to read Mr. Brown Can Moo; because your face is pressed against the window in a toothy grin every evening saying “Dada! Dada!” as he drives up; because of your sturdy arm slung over Sheaff’s neck as you practice whispering, or those rare special nights when you peacefully fall asleep in your new bed, your forehead pressed against mine. 

I hope you know that to us, you are joy. You make ordinary days sparkle and our dreams glow because they shine with the bright, spirited hues of you. 

You have pages and pages of adventures ahead; stories to be told and so much of you to unfold. But I hope you know that as the years pass, on October 8th, you’ll always have us, treasuring the minute Adalyn Marlena came into this world and our greatest adventure began, with you. 

I love you, 

Mom