Dear Simone,
Seven years ago, your mom woke me at five in the morning and told me we should call the doctor. I was exhausted—the night before had been a baby shower in your honor, and we’d been up late with a large of group of friends. Baby toys, tiny tiny footie pajamas, and heartbreakingly soft linens were strewn across the entryway of our little town home, as if a specialized baby-friendly smart bomb had gone off in a flash of crumpled pink tissue paper and laminated gift bags.
I asked your mom if we could go back to sleep for just one more hour.
But we couldn’t, and we didn’t, and it wasn’t long until we were on our way to the hospital on a crystal clear Sunday morning that tasted like spring. We weren’t expecting you for another month, but that didn’t stop you from arriving that night, at 9:30 on the dot. You were five pounds and six ounces; a miniscule pink creature that seemed to be all mouth (I should have known then that you’d be a talker).
Those first sleepy weeks were magical, even when I’d wake up and sit with your mom while you’d nurse in the night, barely able to keep my eyes open while we’d talk quietly. I remember how your jammies would smell of cedar (from your new dresser) and the clean scent of your warm, soft skin. I could have sniffed you 24 hours a day.
I worked from home at least two days per week for the first three and a half years of your life. I’d take you on assignment with me, and you’d sleep in the carrier strapped to my chest while I’d conduct interviews. I knew you best, because I spent more time with you than anyone else did. Even though I’d travel occasionally for work (and, let’s face it, most of those trips were at my discretion), I’d ache to get home and hold you tight.
When we put a cupcake with a candle in front of you for your first birthday, you said “hot.” When we asked you what you wanted for your second birthday dinner, you gave us such a look, as if we were total idiots, and said, “sushi.” By your third birthday, you were splitting your time between “Simone’s Apartment” and “Simone’s Blue House.”
By the time you were three, you’d known for a least a year that you wanted to be a paleontologist when you grew up. You couldn’t yet say your ‘L’s, so it came out “payeontoyogist” when I took you, right after your third birthday, to visit with the chief curator at the Denver Museum of Nature & Science. Dr. Graham showed you a jaw bone in the back collections, not open to the public, and you said, “Flat teeth; must have been an herbivore.” And then, when he showed you the skull of another creature, you said, “Look at the crest; that looks like a pteranodon.” He told you he wanted you to send him your papers when you started publishing your work.
Simone, you don’t remember life before the divorce, and it amazes me how well you’ve acclimated to living in two homes. Sure, there were long periods when you acted out, when you’d have major meltdowns anywhere, anytime. And I’ll never forget dropping you off at preschool one Friday morning, knowing I wouldn’t see you for a couple of days, and how you cried and cried, and the teacher had to take you out of my arms so I could leave. I cried in the parking lot, drove a few blocks, then pulled over and cried some more. I was weepy that whole day—the slightest jolt would cause me to choke up.
But, wow, look at how much you and I have grown together these last four years! We struggled along the way; we argued; I yelled, you cried, we sorted it out and snuggled close; we’ve been on incredible adventures; we’ve built a life together, and now it feels so normal, doesn’t it?
I am so proud of you, Simone. You are charming and funny, articulate and serious, and, even though you speak like a grownup, you are still a child who craves plush toys, who cries when things don’t go her way, and who can’t resist a good poo joke.
I shouldn’t be surprised by the things you say anymore, but you still blow me away.
Our school mornings can still be a little rocky, but I wouldn’t give them up for anything. A couple months ago, we were running late, and I almost tripped over one of your dinosaurs as we were getting ready to leave.
Piqued, I said, “Simone, you can’t leave your toys here!”
“Calm down, Dad,” you replied, calmly. “You’re just stressed because you overslept, and it made us late — that’s not my fault!”
“You’re right,” I said, chastened, “But that still doesn’t mean you can leave your toys in the middle of the floor!”
Last week, when I was dropping you off at school, a little girl showed us a small stick-like thing, with curly wires coming up off the top. I asked her if it was a butterfly, and she said no.
I still laugh when I think about what you said: “Looks like some sort of abstract art on a pencil.”
Abstract art? Really?
My darling daughter, we have a long road ahead of us, full of challenges, both big and small, in the offing. I don’t know what joys and trials are ahead for the two of us, but we’ll face them together. What I do know is this: though my life has been difficult in so many ways since that early March morning seven years ago, it wouldn’t be nearly as rich, and magical, and silly, and wonderful, if you weren’t in it. I am so grateful for you.
Happy birthday, Simone.
Love,
Daddy
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