Note: This post was supposed to go up the day I gave birth to Henry. Due to an insanely fast labor I was unable to publish it. So here it is now, 25 days later. I’m sick of seeing it sit in my draft folder.
Two days before Mother’s Day, I received a package in the mail from my mom.
Wrapped in tissue paper inside a small priority shipping box was my baby book, meticulously filled with details and photographs from the first years of my life.
She said it seemed like an appropriate time to pass it along.
The first thing I noticed upon reading my mom’s curly-cue notes was that that her penmanship hasn’t changed in three decades. The second thing I noticed was how young she and my dad looked in the pictures. She was 21 years old. He was 23.
I was two months old when she wrote the note you see above. And 29 years old when I read it for the first time.