An old book written by an old man says, “Shame on birth, since to every one who is born, old age must come.”
You were born on Groundhog Day. My third daughter, my tiny lioness, I counted the days, the hours, the minutes until your due date. And then I had to count a little more, but there was no shame, no sadness, no bitterness when you finally came. It’s quite unlike the old book says; still I know there’s some truth in the statement. And now, in these sacred, sanitary hospital hours, as I listen to you snort and snuffle through your first few hundred breaths, I wonder what can be said in a few hundred words about the short time we’ll have together.
You have just a little while to be playful. You’ll learn to laugh when dad makes goofy faces and pretends to eat your toes and that will be what you know for the longest, quickest period of your life. All that playfulness is likely to turn serious and you will carry that seriousness into things that have no business being taken so seriously. In just a few months, after you discover pain and balance and table corners and ear infections, you will wrinkle your little forehead with the as-yet-liquid seriousness that leaks into your playfulness. You’ll wonder: why?Read More ›