We're now three-hundred sixty-five days later. There was your first cry which led to your first laugh. Your first crawl which led to your first step. And your first full diaper which pretty much led to the last one.
You took your first nap and fought the one this afternoon. Grew into your pajamas and grew out of your shoes. Learned sign language for "more," then learned when you were "finished." Your eyes went from gray to blue, and then endlessly expressive. Your smile looks like a half moon, while your howl sounds like a full one.
You stroll in the park but avoid the snow, chase the cat but run from bubbles, stare at your food but chew on your books. You ride daddy's shoulders and snuggle with mom, walk around balloons and kiss your dolls, and you only touch the walls now when getting to your feet or diving into door jambs.
But the time's gone both ways. When your dad thinks about how long ago your mom was pregnant, that must've been a decade ago. But when your dad thinks about how long it's been since you showed up, that might've only been last month. There's a discrepancy involved that he can't account for. Unless you account for all that time going into love.
(And your dad learned that sentimentality is just fine.)
