I want to give you something that my mother gave to me: the first of what I’m sure will be many larger-than-life tales about the wonderfulness of you. Someday I’m sure you’ll hear that I read at a very young age, that I was practically born to tell stories. Or that a psychic said, when your Uncle Andy was born, that he would be a leader and a great man that people were drawn to.
Both of my parents taught me, each in their own ways, that it’s important that every child knows that somebody believes they are remarkable and able to achieve whatever they set their mind to. And as much as your gentle nature, sense of humor and easy happiness amaze us more each day, you were also remarkable before you were even born.
Before we knew you were going to enter our lives, we went to Greece to see your Uncle Lowry and Aunt Sara get married. While we were there, your daddy, grandma and I visited the ancient city of Delphi on Mount Parnassus, which the Greek God Zeus said was the bellybutton of the universe.
Daddy and I drank from the Castilian Spring, where Apollo, the God of Poetry and Music dwelled with the muses. It is supposed to be a source for inspiration and learning for those who drink deeply from it. Daddy filled a cup for me and I drank deeply from it, so it was one of the very first waters that nourished you.
On this mountain thousands of years ago, there was also an oracle called the pythia. She inhaled vapors from a crack in the earth at the Temple of Apollo and told her visitors what was in their future. Since I don’t get the chance to visit the navel of all existence very often, I got as close as I could to the place where the oracle once stood and whispered what I thought was a very practical question, just: “what do I need to know?”
When we got back to the states and confirmed that you would be joining our lives in the spring, I knew that the answer to my question – the person who would teach me things I couldn’t have imagined, things I need to know – was you.