Ten years ago today, right about now, I was holding you for the first time. You had a head full of dark hair, which surprised your Western European-rooted parents. Perhaps the old wives tale about heartburn = lots of baby hair was actually true.
You were expected, but surprised us with something unexpected. That one seemingly small thing has shaped us as your parents and you as a person in ways we could never have foreseen when you were born.
We wouldn’t change a single moment.
Ok, maybe one or two. The time you somehow managed to spray pee in your Daddy’s face while he was changing your diaper when you were about three weeks old would probably top his list.
Your life so far is bigger, deeper, stronger, and better than we ever could have imagined when we saw you for the first time. You brought us to the peaks of joy and pride and to the depths of fear and longing and emerged now, a decade in the making, a child who far exceeds whatever expectations we had before you came. Brave, joyous, caring, loving, funny, smart, and strong.
When Daddy and I were up with you in the middle of the night once, the fear of the unknown for your future threatening to swallow us alive, he looked up at me and said, “God chose us to be her parents.”
Indeed. The biggest, best “job” I could have ever dreamed of.