YOU'LL BE OFF

Dear Spike:

My God, you're changing fast. I swear that on some mornings, when I fetch you from your crib, I hardly recognize you as the little girl I put to bed just the night before.

After months of moving from here to there in an awkward sort of contorted slither, you've finally begun crawling, but I don't reckon you'll be doing that for long, for you've also pretty much figured out how to walk. You've only now to find your ballance. And then you'll be off.

Walking. Running. Jumping.

Rolling. Sliding. Swimming. Diving.

Your mother brought your little blue baby tub down to the basement last week. You just got too big for it. For the first few times in our big clawfoot tub your mother or I would bath along with you, catching you when you'd slip and slide on the slick porcelain bottom. But now you've got that figured out too. And so we simply sit to the side and run a cup of water over your hair.

Soon, I suppose, you'll be doing that by yourself too.

A few months back, your mother and I purchased a bicycle trailer for you to ride in and came up with a nifty way to strap your car seat into the harnesses. But now you've gotten so long that your feet stick out the front, making it impossible close the front flap. Your mom tried sitting you into the trailer without the safety seat, but you're still too small for that. Not sure how we'll fix that problem, but in any case, I know it's going to be a temporary fix, for you're growing so fast.

Soon, I know, you'll be too big for the car seat. And then, not long therafter, you'll be too big for your trailer. And that will be just fine because, right around the time that occurs, you'll be wanting your own bicycle anyway. And we'll oblige, of course. And then you'll be off.

Riding. Jumping. Sometimes falling. Getting back up and doing it again. Faster. Faster still.

You've almost grown out of the outfit we bought to bring you home from the hospital. Admittedly, I didn't think it would even last this long. But you were such a tiny little thing. And so the Oregon State University onesie in which we'd intended to dress you for the trip home instead was used as a blanket to cover your skinny little legs against the May breeze. Unprepared for such a wee little baby, we dispatched your grandparents to the store to find some premie clothes. You wore those sizes for months. You didn't really fit into that OSU outfit until a few months ago. And within a few weeks, I suppose, we'll pack it away for good.

I try not to spend too much time lamenting the ticking of the clock. It's a waste of today to worry too much about tommorrow.

But sometimes when I rock you at night, and sing to you the songs that help you sleep, I know I will not rock you this way and sing to you these songs forever.

But that's fine, too. Because today is special — exactly because it is today. And tommorrow will be special in its own ways. And the next day. And the next.

I love the way you are today. But I will love you no less tommorrow.

In fact, I'll love you more.

Love,
dad