Sunday evening skyping with you: what a joy! Your parents, my daughter and son-in-law provide the context and the commentary, but just watching and listening to you is what charges your grandparents. Two and half years old, with long blonde pageboy cut, you're not a baby or a toddler or any kind of infant any longer but a boy, at least, proto-boy, with the facial expressions, the physical exuberance, the love of words, the eagerness for games, the readiness to try anything.
You with your shovel outside helping dad clean the driveway, or moving chairs to get the sink to wash dishes or, hold on now, the stove to cook 'trees' (broccoli): nothing is too mundane to model.
Libraries and books, kids games, farm animals, childrens' museums, a wide assortment of broadening experiences is your everyday diet. Eager to learn, the inbound traffic is incessant, and the outbound is what we see on Sunday evening: things to say, things to show, things to want.
Another on the way, you'll not be alone, but you'll always be special. I keep thinking of all the things that you can learn than I can teach, and the many more that I can learn along with you, and that number more which far beyond my capability. I think of all the adventures of derring-do that await you, the adventures of perception, the adventures of relationship. I think of all that will touch you deeply and tantalize you, and of the indignations that will move you to action. I think of those who will depend on you and how staunch you will find yourself being. All the poems you will sing to yourself and others. These stories are to be told in days to come, but they are part of the broad realm of your inheritance.
Still, Wigglewort, you've got lots of things to learn, and time. Don't go too fast for me to not recognize you next weekend.
You with your shovel outside helping dad clean the driveway, or moving chairs to get the sink to wash dishes or, hold on now, the stove to cook 'trees' (broccoli): nothing is too mundane to model.
Libraries and books, kids games, farm animals, childrens' museums, a wide assortment of broadening experiences is your everyday diet. Eager to learn, the inbound traffic is incessant, and the outbound is what we see on Sunday evening: things to say, things to show, things to want.
Another on the way, you'll not be alone, but you'll always be special. I keep thinking of all the things that you can learn than I can teach, and the many more that I can learn along with you, and that number more which far beyond my capability. I think of all the adventures of derring-do that await you, the adventures of perception, the adventures of relationship. I think of all that will touch you deeply and tantalize you, and of the indignations that will move you to action. I think of those who will depend on you and how staunch you will find yourself being. All the poems you will sing to yourself and others. These stories are to be told in days to come, but they are part of the broad realm of your inheritance.
Still, Wigglewort, you've got lots of things to learn, and time. Don't go too fast for me to not recognize you next weekend.
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