You are 3 months old, and as your mother, there is something I must confess to you: I haven’t yet cracked open your baby book. It sits neatly on my nightstand, undisturbed and unmarked, while a succession of telling objects rotate around it as the nights go by: pacifiers (mainly rejected by you), nipple cream, novels, water glasses, vitamin D drops (barely remembered by me), burp cloths, tiny nail clippers, cards of congratulations, a copy of Goodnight Moon, and a messy pile of kids’ books and scribbled papers left by your older sister. These last three months have been wonderfully full. I marvel at how much you’ve changed in such a short amount of time and know how quickly these present moments will slip into the past. I don’t want to forget them.
You were born in the cold drizzle of the Oregon winter. Trees stood leafless, like…
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