We are astounded, amazed, and overjoyed at Our Little Hero’s journey. Since nearly leaving us, she’s relearned to breathe on her own, stand, and eat. But she also runs now (everywhere), she climbs, makes messes, and is becoming something of a socialite. She’s more curious than cautious these days; during a long plane ride, Charlotte took her for a stretch break to walk down the aisle… Amaia decided to pat random people’s knees along the way. 

We’re in DC for my brother’s wedding (hence the plane ride). She’s handling the heat and humidity well, and there’s something special about taking your kid to meet the people you’ve known for most of your life. Neighbors and neighborhoods *should* have a generational feel to them, it seems to me. 

These are strange times in some ways. We’ve been to hell and back this year, but you wouldn’t know it if you were to meet us for the first time today. Letting go is a conscious process. Every new conversation— whether we’re old friends catching up or just meeting for the first time— is an exercise in trying to figure out how much someone “needs” to know, deciding whether I’m sharing what we’ve been through (in a good, healthy way) or simply wallowing in the horror and sadness from just a few months ago. 

So I focus on the milestones. It makes me feel proud and grateful. She climbs. She eats. She laughs. She’s working on her squats. She’s getting stronger day by day. 

At some point, Charlotte and I looked at each other and agreed that we couldn’t call her a picky eater anymore. Of course she has her favorites (cheese, goldfish, and strawberries), things that she doesn’t like (she wasn’t a huge fan of tabbouleh yesterday, but we’ll try again), and she doesn’t eat as much as we’d like or at times that are convenient for us, but we aren’t worried that she’ll need to have a feeding tube placed. 

Amaia is still a pretty quiet kid (and, honestly, I love whispering to her when we snuggle). She still loves reading and going to the library, but now the whole building is hers to explore. She can identify common colors like green or red, but she still doesn’t get that “salmon” is both a kind of fish and also a shade of pink. It’s a similar story for shapes: circles, triangles, and squares, are fine, but prisms are still beyond her. 

Look, I’m a really proud dad, and I could talk about all the cool stuff she does all day long, but what I think is most important to me these days is the realization that this time is fleeting. For what it’s worth, almost losing her makes it that much easier to appreciate her presence, even when her hands are a little sticky and gross (from what? I don’t know, don’t want to know, but probably should). Tonight she asked me to read the same story maybe 3 times in a row (this is common). But instead of getting annoyed, it’s easy to look at her little feet dangling over my knee and remember when they dangled a little closer. One day she’ll read these books to us for change, and on another she won’t want to sit on our laps at all anymore. These days are short, and they are very likely to be some of the best of our lives for a while. 

Today, she is two. She is a beautiful, kind, smart, brave, and adventurous toddler. She loves ducks, pigs, and so many other little animals. She loves to splash in the water. She loves to snuggle with her mom and dad. She is loved and she is thriving. 

And, as always, we are so lucky