Dear Grady,
Today you are nine years old.
When you were just a few days old, and you spent the majority of your hours curved in a ball on my chest, and I was ravaged by postpartum hormones and new mom nerves and sleep deprivation, and the summer heat was long and unrelenting, I would hold you and rock back and forth listening to Willie Nelson’s version of The Scientist on repeat and cry. Coldplay’s version of the song has always had a special place in my heart and Willie Nelson will always and forever remind me of my dad; the combination of the two made for the perfect soundtrack to feeling new parenthood feels. I cried because I couldn’t keep you small forever, and if you grew up I couldn’t protect you from a world that often feels too big, too loud, and too much.
Today you turned nine in a world that still feels too big, too loud, and too much, but I’m not sad that you’re growing up. It is a privilege and a delight to get to witness you grow from a tiny, helpless ball to the kind, empathetic, hilarious kid you’ve become. You care deeply about people and your generous heart is one of my favourite things about you. You make me feel like maybe this world isn’t so scary, and that you and your sister don’t need to be protected so much as accompanied. You make me believe that enthusiasm and good intentions are an advantage, sincere interest in others is a super power, and there’s rarely any harm in sharing a kind word. You make people feel loved and seen, Grady. I’m blown away by how much you care.
It’s been months since you crawled into our bed for an early morning snuggle but if I close my eyes and concentrate, I’m transported back to those first few days when you lived on my chest and we swayed and cried together. This world is a lot but we’re moving through it together.
Happy birthday, Grady Bug. I love you bunches.
