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Monthly Archives: September 2013

Dear Corwin,

This morning you woke up, smiled at me sweetly, sleepily, and asked for broccoli. How could I possibly refuse? I’ve never really been into cooking, but I like to try sometimes, especially for you. One of my favorite memories will always be of this morning, as you played air violin with all the seriousness that a 22 month old boy can muster. You did this as you sat on my lap and I hummed Ode to Joy, while we waited for the broccoli to finish baking.

You said “mmmm” and smiled with every bite, and every time your father helped himself to some, you would check how much is left and pat your chest, saying “Corwin”, as if telling him to make sure he leaves enough for you. I love you so much, my funny bunny.

Last night, you made me sit Meemo (your little wooden robot, a gift from clients/friends) up so you could teach him how to cook zebra soup and fried orange. You would let me taste what you were cooking, and I said “yum” every time. I’m just now realizing that maybe you respond so positively to my cooking because I do the same with yours. Hahaha.

We had a really great shoot today. It rained so hard, but we were happy still. It’s been five years and there’s still a little part of me that’s in disbelief over how lucky your father and I are to be able to do what we love for a living together. On the long drive home in the rain, I wished for you three things: 1) that you be so lucky as to find your passion and love your job as much as we love ours (in case you prefer that your passion and your job not be one and the same, that’s okay, too) ; 2) that your heart will always be grateful for whatever it is you do have; and 3) love — the kind that gathers you and keeps you safe and warm, the kind that always feels like coming home.



Dear Corwin,

You turned 22 months old yesterday. You still love your Iron Man action figure, and still simply call him, “Man”. You collect sticks and rocks and crumpled pieces of paper, and once spent an entire car ride holding a rock in your hand that you insisted on taking home from the park.

Your first four-word sentence was “I don’t want to” after I told you to say you’re sorry. I almost burst out laughing. It’s hilarious and cute now, and in a way, I’m proud you’re asserting yourself. You apologized eventually, touching my cheek with your little hand. By the time you read this letter, I’m sure you already know better and apologize when you need to. We love you so very much, and that’s why we are not raising any brats here.

I often wake up to you looking down at me and saying in your best Elmo voice, “Hi, baby.” It makes me want to squish you into something tiny that will fit inside my pocket. We got you Elmo pjs and you wear them so proudly. It’s so adorable it almost hurts.

Your father has been letting you watch a particularly emotional Pavarotti performance, Vesti La Giubba. And you sign and say, “Cry” at the end when he cries, then ask to watch it over again. I tried to even it out by showing you this video of an orchestra playing Ode to Joy on the streets of Spain, the most wonderful flash mob performance that makes me so happy I tear up each time I watch it. You kept saying “More!” and we watched it five times yesterday, with you on my lap, and your little toy guitar on yours. I was kissing and sniffing your head the entire time. You are the sweetest, most joyful thing I know.