It’s incredible how swiftly five years can pass. There are times it seems it was only moments ago that I first saw you, first held you. And then, it also seems like a lifetime ago that I would spend entire nights on the couch with you, because you wouldn’t sleep in your crib. It’s been eons since your first steps and your first words. You are scarcely the same person anymore.
You have made me proud every day for the last five years. You were born facing a whole slew of obstacles: a 28-week preemie, you spent 78 days in the NICU. Nearly every one of those 78 days, you impressed the doctors and nurses with your strength. You reached milestone after milestone before you were supposed to. You didn’t stop impressing us after coming home, either.
You are smart, curious, kind, loving, sensitive, and empathetic. You are also goofy, imaginative, playful, and adventurous. And ticklish. Sweet, merciful heavens, are you ever ticklish.
Five years ago tonight, there was a full moon. I remember staring at it from your mother’s hospital room, pondering the enormity of what had just happened, what lay before me. Mom and I had just returned to her room from the NICU, where we got to finally see you after several hours. I watched as the nurses changed the masks you wore to protect your eyes from the UV lights that shone in your incubation cribs. I saw your face for the first time, and it was instantly familiar, and even now I can’t explain or understand how that’s possible, but it was.
So after too short of a stay, your Mom and I returned up one floor to her room, and I stared out that window and simply thought about everything in my life and how it would never be the same again. I knew, sitting there, that I could never hope to know the exact ways my life would change, but I knew it would change because of the two of you.
The two of you. You and Ben. I’m so glad you know about Ben, and so heartbroken that your twin is in Heaven and not here with you. Because Ben died, you know and understand more about the sad parts of life, about death, than a five year old needs to know. Yet you even manage to take that sad knowledge and make it into something beautiful. You always remember to include Ben when we talk about the members of our family. You always want to visit the park when we go to church, and play by Ben’s tree and sing a song for him. And then sometimes you do cry because, even though you know him only from pictures and stories, he’s still your brother and he’s not here. And you know you won’t ever see him for a long long time, and that is something to be sad about. And there is nothing in those moments I wouldn’t do to make you happy, but there’s nothing I can do, either. So I just try to reassure you that it’s okay to be sad sometimes. But the truth is, in those moments, you’re the one who’s reassuring me.
I am a better person today than I was five years and a day ago. That is largely because of you. Thank you for being my daughter.
Beautiful. No other word. Beautiful.