Editor's note: The following was written nearly a month ago. Due to the insanity of everyday life and the author's own misgivings it was not posted promptly in time for Sofia's birthday as planned. The author, frankly, didn't think it was good enough for publication. But that's what editors are for. So better late than never, we offer you, dear reader, a letter to Sofia on her first birthday.
April 17, 2005 5 a.m.
Dear Sofia,
Hey little one. You can’t read this just yet, but someday you will.
Tomorrow is your first birthday. And despite the fact I am paid to be a writer, I can scarcely put into words how much your mom and I love you, how amazing and wonderful and sweet you are and how much you have changed our world for the better.
About 20 or so people are coming over today to celebrate with us. We’ve gone overboard, really, but it’s worth every penny. Do you know why your birthday is such a big deal? Because celebrating it means celebrating the very fact that you are here with us, and that we are so glad you are! Someday when you’re bigger, I hope you will always feel the same way – that it’s a day to say “I’m glad I’m me and I’m glad I’m here!”
It’s extra special for us because it’s the day that you came into our lives and made us a family.
It’s hard to express how a year has flown by – how you have gone from a pudgy little baby bug to a beautiful little girl with such a strong personality and an innate curiosity about the world around you and a spark in your eyes that defies description. And yet it is as if you have always been with us; that despite the fact you are still relatively brand new in our world, we have known and loved you our whole lives.
It’s amazing what you have done in this, your first year with us.
You started off a year ago just slightly bigger than a loaf of bread – a little wonder, with lots of black hair and pudgy legs and pinchable, munchable cheeks. I still remember so clearly the moment I met you, wet and shouting at the end of your trip from your innerspace world to us, how we knew we had chosen the right name for you just by looking at you. I remember how we sat in our hospital room with the TV off, amazed, just watching you sleep.
How you reminded us of so many of our relatives at once – your mom and dad, of course, but also your grandmas and grandpas and even Uncle Mike. How you captivated the hearts of everyone you met, relatives and complete strangers alike. We took so many pictures … shared so many phone calls about your exploits … told anyone who would listen how remarkable and special you are. (It’s less a choice and more a compulsion, you see. I just have to tell the world about you.)
We drove you all the way to Buffalo and listened to you wail half the way back. We went to the ocean, to the city, back home to the Berkshires, anointed scores of honorary uncles and aunties. You made friends everywhere you went with that wide chubby-cheek smile of yours and that cute little laugh – grinning at the face in the mirror at Auntie Kate and Uncle Carl’s house, playing peek-a-boo and patty cake with your Grandmas and Grandpas, charming the ladies down the street at the laundry and the pharmacy, playing with the other boys and girls at the Quincy Library.
And whatever day it was, the best moment of that day was always seeing you smile at us when you woke up, or feeling you fall asleep, warm and snuggling on our shoulders.
And how you grew! A year later you are crawling all over the house and getting ready to walk on your own two feet. It seems every day you’ve learned a new phrase that knocks us off our feet, or show us a new dance move. You have made new friends for us, our neighbors Lanny and Maryann and Kitty, who loves you like a sister, and gotten to know our friends too.
Better: whether you’re hugging or kissing us or your bears or sharing a Cheerio or a stuffed animal, we’ve been so pleased and gratified to learn you have a kind and giving and gentle soul. And I know deep down that somehow your great-great grandmothers in heaven – women, some of whom never met each other in this life, who had far more in common than they could have ever known -- looked down upon you with love and asked God to bless you, and bestowed upon you a gift worth more than all the earthly treasures you or I could imagine. They gave you a beauty you cannot see or touch, but is an essential part of every bit of you.
I’m not going to tell you that it’s all been easy, Sofia. Being a dad is a bigger challenge than I ever imagined, and I had imagined it was a big one. You cried, a lot, the day we got home, and we couldn’t get you to stop crying and we wondered if you were OK, or if we were just doing the whole thing wrong. But then you fell asleep, soft and tiny and beautiful, and we knew it was going to be fine.
It’s been hard figuring out what I should do, what I should be, where we should live. And it matters so much to me because I want the best for you always and I want us to live somewhere we can be a happy family, somewhere we can be healthy and safe. But every day I come home, you’re here.
But it has all been worth it. Because we love you so much. You, our little someone.
I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do this year.
Love forever and always,
“dadda greg”
