I haven't written you a letter since before you were born. I wrote to you then on a lazy Wednesday in July, seventeen days before you entered the world. I was so excited to meet you and hold you and shower you with affection as soon as you arrived.
I wasn't able to cuddle you until many hours after your first breath, but I still clearly remember the moment I first heard you cry from beyond the surgical sheets. Your strong shout pierced the chaos of the operating room. The doctors, nurses, midwives, they all said how strong you must be to cry so quickly and without any help, despite your difficult journey to get here.
I can still see this strength in you every day. In the way you lie on your back, giggle, and throw your heels forcefully onto the floor; in the way you screech loudly to get my attention; in the way you get so excited that your whole body shakes. I hope this strength stays with you throughout your life. I hope you master physical activities that challenge you, entertain you, and keep you healthy.
I also see tenderness in you. You are sensitive to sounds; you stare wide-eyed at the people and objects surrounding you; you hold on tight when I carry you from room to room. I hope that you always remain soft and gentle. I hope that your tenderness does not get hardened by life's turbulence and unease and that when life does become difficult, you react with affection instead of anger.
Soon I am going to have to share you. In a few weeks I am going back to work and you are going to nursery. Someone else is going to take care of you all day long, you will not be all mine anymore. I am sorry that I won't be able to provide you with the individual love and attention you deserve. But your nursery is a lovely place. You will play and make friends; you will experience new things; you will start to become an independent little man. And I will be there for you every single night when you get home.
I love you.
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