Updated: Apr 30, 2019
You look brown in your Dad's arms, and white in mine. We thought you were gaining color on your second day alive but it turns out you just had jaundice. You're our little chameleon, changing color in relation to your surroundings. Maybe you'll always blend in where you are, or maybe you'll stand out.
After 38 weeks and 4 days, I finally felt like myself again the day you were born. We didn't have many birth preferences for our doctor, but I did tell myself that I didn't want you to be welcomed by anxiety. I read Inward by Yung Pueblo before you were born, and played jazz while you were being born. When they placed you on my chest, I was overcome by fear first. The safest and closest you've ever been is inside me. Letting go of that control doesn't come naturally.
You've changed my perspective on life in profound ways. Moving every 4 years damages one's sense of permanence. Relationships are like revolving doors, people enter and leave, with a swift swooshing sound. Having a child anchors you. I'll never be happy if we stay in one city, state, and country but a temporary sense of permanence isn't bad. You may have a stronger sense of identity than I did growing up because you have a permanent address to call home.
I can't wait to take you to the other places that run through your veins - to the homes of friends and family, to my workplace, to restaurants and events, to other lands and cultures. We can already tell you are an inquisitive soul so hopefully, we can help cultivate your curiosity. As you grow older, I hope you find both your roots and your wings.