Nothing to say, yet
Transcription
A child named Hildegard had trouble taking a nap. During the attempts, they ate, found an earthworm, and watched a movie. Hildegard was sad to leave the earthworm and cried. They dropped the worm when it squirmed, but later wanted to hold it again. The child finds everything amazing and beautiful. They celebrate things adults overlook and grieve when good things end. Hildegard takes books to bed and flips through them, possibly knowing them by heart. The parent loves everything about Hildegard. Earthworms and Books in Bed Dear Hildegard, It took three tries to get you down for your nap today. In between these nap attempts, we ate some rice and beans, found an earthworm outside, and transferred it, somewhat gently, into a heap of nearby dirt, and watched a little bit of the Heffalump movie. You were sad to leave the earthworm. You cried, pointing to the door, hands still caked in mud. When he squirmed in your hands, you got spooked and shrieked, dropped him and ran away. But once inside, your bravery has returned. Now you want to hold him again. I understand. Everything is new to you. Everything is amazing and terrifying and confusing and beautiful. When you find something you love, like ice cream, the swing set at the park, or even an earthworm, you don't want it to end. You clap your hands and celebrate things that we, as adults, walk by without any ceremony or acknowledgment. And when a good thing ends, you grieve that ending with your whole body. Your forehead gets blotchy and pink. You mourn the loss because you understood the value. I think maybe you have it right. You are finally asleep. You've been taking books to bed with you. You flip through them in the dark, and I wonder if you know them by heart now, after all the times we've read them. Sometimes, on the baby monitor, I can see you lying on your back, touching each page as you stare up at the ceiling, as if reading Braille. As Daddy often tells you, I love everything about you.
