When I was younger, I was desperate for blue eyes. They would be so much better than the dark brown I was born with. I used to dream of what my eyes should look like. They’d have a dark blue rim, with light blue in the middle. Those, I thought, would be perfect.
Those, I now see, are my daughter’s eyes. A dark blue rim, with pale blue in the center. I think I dreamed them up.
We recently celebrated her first birthday. Go ahead an insert every cliche about parenthood and the passage of time HERE. It’s all true. Every bit of it. Time flies at incomprehensible speeds, love is deeper than you ever knew possible.
Thanks to Charlotte, I’m living an amplified life.
We didn’t get her anything for her birthday. No gifts or anything. We threw her a 30+ person party, got her a special onesie (that says ONE!) and I made her a tutu, but no new toys or treats.
Three days after I learned I was pregnant, I started writing letters to my unborn child. In the letters I confess my fear, my hopes, and Allan’s euphoria. When I learn I’m carrying a girl, I tell her where her name came from and what color paint we selected for her room.
I tell her about feeling her kick. I continued writing throughout her first year, telling her about the day she was born. I told her about her fascination with lights, about her love of bananas, and her obsession with the dog.
I told her the story of her, and the story of us. It’s a love story, the likes of which I never thought I’d write.
I will print it, bind it, and that will be her first birthday present. And maybe someday when she’s older, she’ll read it and have an idea of just how much I love her.