Hidden Valley Lane is a great name for a street. Just saying it aloud makes me think the way it rolls off the tongue is rivaled only by the bucolic imagery it evokes. It’s the name of the street on which my family (you know, your dad, grandparents, and auntie Katy) lived for a few years in the late 1980s. In the backyard grew a raspberry patch and on the hot days late in the summer when it was time to pick, my mom gave us little margarine containers to carry the berries. They had little blue “Byerly’s” on the side of them, and the bushes in their raised beds were taller than me.
Yesterday, we realized that we have a little over 80 days until we meet you, yet there was no crib in your room. So, we drove on I-494 opposite rush-hour traffic to Ikea, where we picked up a lovely crib for you. I hope you find it meets your standards; it was selected with an eye first towards safety and then esthetics. Did you know there are about a million rules for cribs? Slat spacing, mattress thickness, weight support, wood finish (this crib has none, quite safe!), firmness, hardware, age limits, height guidelines, what can be tied, what must be left out. All to keep you safe. Not that your crib is unsightly, (far from it, in fact I think the charm of its simple lines make it timeless) but I suspect you’ll agree your sleep safety during your formative years is more important than having faddish espresso-colored wood supporting your mattress while you dream. And we simply aren’t sleigh-crib style parents.
Today we found out that you are our baby. We love you already. Your mama went to the doctor’s office and they took your first picture. You are very small right now, just the length of a grain of rice — a “basmati grain of rice,” your mom said. I hope that someday you might read what I am writing and it might give you some insight into that mysterious time when your parents were young and not even five years into their marriage. We love one another so so much, and we want you to be in our family.
