My darling baby boy,
Tomorrow you start Kindergarten.
When you were born you had a look of wisdom, of calm, of brow furrowing thought that I didn’t notice in other babies that were brand new. You were always alert, always watching, always waiting, always busy. At nine months you said your first word (“dutton” while pointing at a button on my shirt) and at eleven months you crawled over and picked up a book and triumphantly held it up to me, after I had been saying the words in an offhand sing-song (Hand, Hand Fingers Thumb – dum ditty dum ditty dum dum dum). At two you lined up your blocks and held our faces in your hands, and made up songs about peacocks. At three you lined up your Tinker Toys and read your first word (“coffee”). At almost four we moved you 4,500 miles from home, where you gasped at soaring eagles, picked blueberries, lived in snowpiles, asked big questions so we gave you big answers. At five we moved you back home, where you like to have “meetings” about your Playmobil guys and find perfect rocks for painting on and sitting on.
You’re an adventure on winged feet. You read your first sentence this week (“Stop Here for Permit” – a sign on the UT campus) and then you claimed to be able to read hieroglyphics. You are a beautiful human being, and your father and I are amazed by you. Every day, every hour, even when you’re stomping your feet at us.
Your brow is still as furrowed in thought as it was when you were a baby, and your serious looks and nods show me the man you’ll be. We are so blessed to have you, we’ll always try and lift you up, help you out, hug you when you’re feeling blue, and try and make you laugh.
We love you, buddy.