Dearest nephew-boobala,

I am sorry I laughed at this photo of you.

But only a little bit, really. And afterwards I hugged my computer because I wanted to hug you so much. My computer did not appreciate it; not one bit.

Come to Chicago. The lemon tree has three open blooms for you to sniff and there are monsters on the wall that want to say hello to you.

All my love,
Aunty M.

See you soon, soon, soon.

Such photogenic genes.

My dear Sophia,

Just like your arrival, your first birthday comes like a joyful shout in the night that wakes me from my dreaming state. “Hooray!” it yells, and laughs so sweet my ears can barely hold the sound. It makes me feel older, just like you, and reminds me to cram as much life as will fit into each passing year—so long for you, so short for me—until they overflow with vision and flight and rage and ache and love.

You are the gorgeous gift of genes and generations. Happy Birthday, baby girl.

Love,
Aunty M.

That’s Asher, the baby whose hair stood up on end and who amused me with pooping phone calls and dazzled the internerd* with his eyes and comforted me before I had surgery.

Three!

Sheesh!

Happy Birthday, Big Foot. I love you.

*Estee, did I get “internerd” from you? Now I have noticed a few of my Flickr friends are using it. I find this highly amusing.

If you’re reading this, chances are good I owe you an email or a phone call. Give me a little bit; I’m still getting over not seeing this face in the morning and I really need to go to bed right now or I’m going to be up till 3am finding out what the internet did while I was gone.

I missed you all.