Today, while you were in the bathtub creating your many stories and activities, I had a wish bubble up in me. That there could be a kind of camera or video camera that could take images/movies of our lives that you could then, later, walk into and relive in that moment. To turn around in it, really feel all that was there, just as it was for you in that real moment. That’s what virtual reality is just becoming now, and I’m guessing when you get to be my age you will have something like this or will have invented it yourself. To me, it’s only possible as magic and a wistful hope.

I wish I had that camera today because I just had these amazing three hours with you. Dad had to be out of the house so it was just you and me. In your bath, you took a toothbrush that has a suction cup on the bottom (to keep it from tipping over) and created: a brush that cleaned cars along the sides like you see in the car wash; a device to pick up your big toy jeep car, like the magnets on top of the vehicles at car compactor sites; and then you stuck it on the front, angled windshield and declared it was a “unicorn car”. I wish you could see now the delight you put into me and that I saw in you in these moments. We said a lot of wows and made a LOT of giggles. How can you be so creative in such an abstract way and be so young? You’ve always been like this, though. Such a miracle, you are.

After bath time, we played in your bedroom. We took apart a foldaway bed. Earlier in the day, you had discovered that when we took the mattress off, the part of the bed under it looked a lot like a trampoline. So you made it into one. You jumped from it to the bed. Leapt off the bed onto it. Created an obstacle course for yourself where you climbed on the trampoline, up to the top of your (low) clothes dresser, onto the bed, bounced off the bed back onto the trampoline and repeated it. We discovered that you could also turn the trampoline into a drum set if you hit it with your feet. We did a lot of drumming.

We made up a song about being loud. Because we weren’t going to disturb anyone by being loud. And you made me sing it twice. We had a chorus where we made up words to sing super loudly. You liked the “MEOOOWWWWW!” one I did best. You do love kitties.

It’s fall so the sun is setting earlier each day. By this time it was dark out and the light from your lamp was shining on the wall next to your bed. We both were laying across the bed sideways, with our feet hanging off one side and our heads next to the wall right by your bed. You began lifting your feet and hands up and discovered they cast a perfect set of shadows on the wall. You waved them back and forth and started giggling because we both noticed at the same time that it kind of looked liked your feet were either eating or attacking your hands when you waved them in the same direction, past each other. First we pretended your leg shadows were eating your hand shadows. Then you made the hand shadows fight back! Then the feet shadows kept trying to eat the hand shadows, but the hands had turned into ghosts! So the legs were foiled again and again. Your giggles made my heart grow bigger. We laughed a lot.

After a while, it was dinner time. Our play had to end. But I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to live, like that camera that doesn’t exist yet, in these moments of today with you for a long, long time.

So these words are my attempt to fix the memory to your mind like it is in mind. A beautiful three hours of smiles, laughing, listening, creating, moving, and just being with each other. I can only write in one dimension, but to me the vivid beauty of those hours are in my heart now. I hope you feel that love in these simple words. Because I love you so much, Sam. Thank you for this beautiful day.

You say a lot of amazing things on a daily basis. Some of them are just straight up funny. Many of them are wise beyond your four years. Some of them are both.

Like yesterday: we were at the Sugar Sand Park playground around twilight. They had to close the playground soon after we got there due to darkness. After I explained the why of this (it was dark; there were no lights on the playground), you declared soberly: “What a shame. What a shame!”

And other times your words seem to come from some place deep in your young and old soul. Last Friday night, our dog Desmond died. He suffered. He was old and probably had a heart attack. Your dad and I were so sad.

We are so sad. He had been a part of our lives for nine years. And no matter how fast his death came, we still will always wonder if we could have done something to save him.

We were honest with you from the start. We didn’t say he was gone. We told you he’s dead. And he’s never coming back.

Each day since that day you’ve asked us about where he is. Tonight, as you were getting ready for bed, I was listening in on the baby monitor as dad put your PJ’s on. Here’s what I heard:

You: “Where’s Des Des?”
Dad: “Where do you think he is?”

You: “He’s dead.”
Dad: “That’s right. How does that make you feel?”
You: “A little sad. But it’s okay. You can always think of him in your heart.”

And that’s exactly right. The pain of those we have loved and lose never leaves us. Not really. The only way to handle that pain is to think of them in our heart.

So you should know: Des loved you. He was very protective of you. He often wanted to share your food, even though you rarely wanted to. He liked to give you kisses on your face. He put up with how you tried to crawl all over him when you were a giggly baby. Whenever I took you on walks with him he always barked at people to keep them away from you – to keep you safe. As if to say: this is my boy, and he is precious to me, so stay back!

And all a dog really wants is to be loved and to do good for his humans. Thank you for giving him the chance to have both because of you. Thank you for reminding us that our hearts hold on to the ones we love most, forever.

Tonight, Dad started talking to you at bedtime about how we became a family. We’ve told you your story before, when you were even younger, and we keep talking about it with you because it is so important to us. We also want you to know a few things.

• 

1. The day you were born is and always will be the best day of our lives. The love you brought into our family just because you’re you is immense – as big as the universe. All the universes!
2. We are so proud to be your parents. Every day, all the time. Do I wish I gave birth to you? Of course I do. I think it would make it easier for you. But I could never have had a child as beautiful as you are in every possible way. So I’m filled with the deepest gratitude that you are our boy.
3. There may be times in your life when you feel sad about how your life began. It’s normal and necessary to feel that way. We’ll always be here to hold you through it all. We’ll answer your questions. We honor your feelings.
4. If you ever feel that you were abandoned, don’t. Your birth parents chose us because they knew they were too sick to care for you. They knew your life would be good because we are your parents. You didn’t do anything wrong or bad. Their sickness started way before you were born. They knew they wouldn’t get better.
5. Whenever we’ve told someone you’re adopted, they don’t believe it at first. Because you look like us. We act like each other. You belong to us and we belong to you. And maybe they see how fiercely we love you. Because we do.
6. Remember the story we will tell you over and over about how we became a family. To us, you will always be a miracle. You may not believe it now but I hope one day you will.
7. Your story is unique and yet there are 7 million people (as I write this) who are adopted in the U.S. alive today. That’s just our country. Not long after we adopted you, your grandfather (Gaga) was at a dinner party for work. He sat down at a table with 5 women. They asked him about his family and he talked about you just being born and adopted. The woman next to him said, “oh, I’m adopted.” The woman next to her said, “I’m adopted too.” And the woman next to her said, “Me too.” I love that story because your grandfather was so proud of you and the women who were with him were so proud to tell him about their stories.

I hope when you’re reading this you’ll know the most important thing of all: there’s no way in the world that we could love you more than we do, sweet pea. To us, you’ve always been our forever son and we’ll always be your forever parents. No matter what, no matter when, no matter where, we will always, always love you. Forever.

Yesterday was your fourth birthday. When you become a parent, if you choose to become a parent, you’ll completely grasp Einstein’s relativity of time theory because time passes too quickly and also passes slowly when you are a parent. So yesterday felt like a day that came way too fast, and also made us realize the enormity of time that has passed in terms of your development as a human being.

I’d also tell you that being a parent is more like guessing and hope than anything else. There is nothing that can prepare you for caring for someone else’s life, well-being, and safety. So you try to base everything you do, within reason and your abilities (which change sometimes week to week, sometimes day to day, sometimes year to year), on love, listening, and guiding. And you humbly realize at some point most of what you say is just words passing out into a blah blah blah puff of smoke because experience is a better teacher than words. Honestly, most of what you do as a parent is what’s seen, remembered, and taken in.

What I hope you remember about yesterday is the feeling of how loved you are. How you had fresh-baked brownies for breakfast. How you were so “sick-sited” (excited) about the pile of presents you got that you did a super fast jogging in place dance next to the breakfast table. How you played for hours with a school bus with me and then with dad, and named the bus driver after the one your dad told you he had when he was little (Mrs. Goodrich). I hope you’ll remember that your grandparents called you and sang to you and were both in awe and laughing because of all the wise and sweet and funny things you say. I hope you remember falling asleep with your bus next to you and waking up the next day at 6 am because you were so excited to play again.

I guess that you won’t remember these things because most people don’t remember the details of their fourth birthday. I sure don’t. In the end, I hope that you know that on that day, on every day, we loved you, we listened to you, and we tried our best to guide you in your growth. Your so fast, so fast growth.

And we were, as we always are, in awe of the incredible boy you are. So sweet, kind, funny, creative, curious, strong, loving, resilient, tenacious, and courageous.

I hope four is a beautiful year for you. I hope every year of your life, your long life, is more beautiful than that last. Every year we have with you is more beautiful because you are in it.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

Your first nickname, given to you by Papa, was “joy boy”. Imagine the most amazing sound you’ve ever heard: then multiply it by a million. That’s the delight we have had since we first heard you laugh.

A lot of kids are joyful. But one of your many gifts is how you both derive joy from life and give it: by your smiles, your laughs, your jokes, your stories, your discoveries, your incredible way with words, your creations, your conversations, your questions….

Last week, I took you to a science museum that has a splash pad outside. It’s a little structure where they set up objects that spray or dump water, designed for children to get really wet – which is nice, given we live in a place where summer feels like butter melting in an oven that is never turned off. You ran around this pad – you had it all to yourself – pushing the button that sets the water running. Jets and sprays caught you. And above you, a large pole was shooting water into buckets – it was designed to look like a big green stem arching over into flower petals – that were designed to slowly, slowly fill up and then get so much water in them that they had to tip it alllllll out. You didn’t notice this at first. I didn’t notice this at first. But when that first bucket dumped right in front of you, you looked up with this bright, humongous smile as if to say, “THANK YOU, BUCKET! I LOVED THAT! MORE MORE MORE!” And then you danced away from it and anticipated the next water fall and ran back under it to get the full splash on your upturned face and you still laughed and splashed with joy.

I’m not sure who you will be when you read this: how old you will be, what experiences will have influenced you, what people will tell you about who you are. (And know this: what people tell you about who you are says more about them and the way they are than who you are.) But I can tell you that the soul of you is joy. It was in you from the beginning. Just look at the face of the boy in those pictures. Just imagine the joy he brings to everyone who loves him.

Just a mom, thinking about time and how it goes so fast, and I don’t want this boy of ours to grow up not knowing how much he was cherished and loved from the moment we knew him – and every single moment after.