Dear Z, Before our son had taken his first deep breath, the doctor returned to the end of your bed and began stitching you back together. Before the nurse handed him to me for the first time, you carried him for nine months, had your skin pierced with countless needles, burst your body open for his entrance into the world. And there I was by your side, body fully intact, meeting my child for the first time, and already miles…
Dear J, You are a marvel to us. Your body is a marvel to us. You are a five month old in nine month old’s clothing, growing so quickly that it’s early March and most of your clothes are tiny t-shirts and shorts, covered in anchors and sailboats. Summer has arrived early in our household. And I have never seen such constant movement. Out of empathetic curiosity, we sometimes lie down beside you on our stomachs, kicking our legs in…