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Somewhere between 6:35 and 7:02 I begin to hear the sounds of rustling and tiny calls of nonsense coming from the monitor. It's funny to think that this piece of technology has been running almost nonstop for a year and a half. It's my link to the secret world of what you do in your room when we are away. It feels invasive and I know that at some point it will be turned off for a final time, put into some box or maybe given to a friend who now has need of its services, thankful for its glowing green eye in the darkness. But for now, it sits next to me while I sleep, while you dream, letting me know that you are content and relaxed in a way that I want you to stay for as long as possible. I want for your dreams to remain untroubled for many years to come.

No one tells you that small children can be your friends. Because it sounds weird and laughable. But it can happen. Over the course of almost two years you have changed from this tiny screaming red faced thing that gave me intense anxiety and worry, to this real life, walking, talking, playing person. You have opinions and thoughts and I love that everything new still amazes you in this way that is so special and fleeting. I still have some of that inside me too--Ive never fully let it go, and maybe that's why I am able to consider you my friend.

At the park, you are wearing your new shoes and as you swing you kick your legs out and throw your head back and there's this smile on your face that I wish I could capture forever. Because it is completely real; you are doing it for no other reason than the things you were feeling inside were powerful enough to become an expression of happiness. The sun goes behind a cloud as you yell loudly about the big trucks driving by, as you count to 9, missing 1-3 because they are tricky, and I think about a passage in Slapstick by Vonnegut where people who don't believe or simply acknowledge they don't know if there is a god should address all their correspondence in the form of "To Whom it May Concern"

To Who it May Concern:  If you can feel the vibes I'm sending out, I want you to know that I am thankful for this day, and for this life that I am living.

During lunch I show you how to eat cheese on a cracker instead of separately and your repeated sounds of "cooool" remind me that there is still so much that you have yet to discover. I don't want to ever completely shield you from the hard parts--the pain and sadness and loneliness and anger. You will need those as they are part of it all. But I will be here to help as long as I am physically on this earth. I will be here. That's what being a parent is. A lifelong signed contract in helping make someone into a good person. One that knows their own worth and that they are capable of always moving forward. That is what I want for you. I want for you what I did not have for myself--stability, and an inner mantra of 'No matter what, it is always going to be ok'.