Letters to Henny

Dear Henry,

Soon you will be three months old. Yet, it seems that you’ve been around forever and a day. How does that happen? How does it work that you’re only 13 pounds yet you’ve come into our lives with a bang, shaking and rattling us up in ways that feel partly exciting, but also unsettling? Like my bones are vibrating and I’m waiting for them to settle back into place.

You pushed your way into the world with force. No, you said, just because I have a huge personality of a big sister to encounter, it doesn’t mean I’m coming meekly, or quietly, or newborn-like. I’m coming for reals. Three hours and forty five minutes it took you to barrel your way into the world, upside down, with your hand raised in greeting.

It became clear pretty quick you weren’t one of those baby wallflowers, either. Just like your sister you demanded to be shown the world. Changes of scenery, constantly aloft in someone’s arms, you weren’t going to tolerate being plunked down, second child or not.

You are immensely beautiful. You are my son. A son I never really imagined I would have, but secretly wished for. Your eyebrows are starting to get reddish, I think, but no one agrees with me. You look dashing in plaid, fetching in teddy bears. You puke all over us all day long.

You blow bubbles at me. You love patterns, and complicated visuals, and fuss until we let you see the books we read your sister at bedtime. You are my smart little boy. You are the child that may resemble me in the slightest. You are sweet, and cuddly, and you cringe from loud noises. You are tall and blue-eyed, at least for now. You love to smile at me, and everyone, and I can’t help but smile back.

I can’t wait to find out more about you.



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