As much as I'd like.

🏕 I haven’t been writing as much as I’d like.

The only things I’ve been writing lately are small stories of love and the future, told into the ears of my newborn.

She’s almost four months, now.

When do you stop calling them a newborn? I don’t know. I don’t even know if I care.

She’s grown so much already in just a third of a year. She’s now into her second season, and fall suits her.

Fall suits her mother, too. Both of my girls in sweaters, so cuddly. I’ve started wearing sweaters myself.

These whispered stories of love, of the future, of all the things she’ll be able to do. All the things she’ll be able to see.

A constant refrain, a point I keep returning to, is how much she’s loved. How much both of them are.

The world is so big, but also so very, very small. I feel that way about my love, my ability to love. So big in loving everyone I’ve ever loved, still. So small in these moments, that all the love in the world is compacted down in to these two tiny blueberry eyes sparkling up at me from my arms.

I would be remiss, of course, not to mention my 16-year-old love, this increasingly thoughtful and curious child who reminds me, “I’m still a kid, though, dad,” whenever I think about how old they’ve gotten, how independent. How they don’t “need” me anymore.

They’ve always been strong-willed, and I pray that will never change. I love them so much I find myself crying at the thought of them growing up. But it can’t be stopped. None of it can.

We keep moving forward, leaving so much behind with each day, desperately trying to slow down each moment, savor it, and pack the best ones into folded pieces of paper in pockets of worn jeans. Or in my case, ripped old shorts.

I stare back into the blueberries, “are you gonna grow up, too?”

And I tell her I love her.

Are you gonna be a space emperor? You can be if you want. You already are mine.

I love these little stories I’ve been writing in her ear, sorry I haven’t put them to paper for anyone else.