AS WE CHANGE

Dear Spike:

Before we met, your mother had never had a corn dog, never seen an episode of M*A*S*H, and never left the borders of the United States of America.

I’d never slept under a feather comforter, never understood the value of a good set of pajamas and never apologized to anyone and really meant it.

We’ve changed a lot, these last few years. And now we’re changing more than ever. And you’re changing too — so much and so fast.

You learned to twist your tiny body today — like a miniature Chubby Checker. Later we went to the park, and you had your first swing. These aren’t big changes. But they’re first steps toward big changes.

Some people think that when you love someone, it means you accept them just the way they are. And that is true.

But love also means accepting one another as we change — and we all change, all the time. Love means allowing yourself to be changed, too.

And love means accepting one another as we come to be whoever we come to be.

I love you, Spike, in ways so deep and so vast that I sometimes wonder whether I’ve finally met my capacity for love, like a runner who takes one final stride and, with that step, simply can run no further.

But tomorrow you will change — if only a little bit — and when you do I will love you more than I do today. And the next day, again. And the next day, again.

And the next day, again.

Love,
dad