As I did with my son, I kept a journal of letters addressed to my daughter starting when she was one year old. Her nickname is Gloopy.
It was always a challenge to put Gloopy down for a nap. She'd twist and squirm and chomp on her "Nuk" like there was no tomorrow. Perhaps she knew--an infantile premonition.
I'd pace from one wall to another, with Gloopy in my arms, as if her room was a cell, eventually estimating the width expertly, even with my eyes closed, and never once banged my nose on a wall. The curtains in her bedroom depicted dinosaurs. They inspired this letter to her.
Dear Gloopy,
Your curtains. There they hung, rippling in the breeze. Seven 'saurs on a white background in a repeating, pastel-colored pattern. The Allosaurus, the Brontosaurus, the Brachiosaurus, the Megalosaurus, the Stegasaurus, the Triceratops, and of course the king of the 'saurs, Sir-saur himself, Tyranosaurus Rex.
I wondered, as I paced the floor, while rocking you to sleep for the umpteenth time, that likely, sooner or later, in the greater scheme of things, it will be curtains for us, too!
Evolution of a,
Daddy
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