No matter how many times we had been warned, we were not prepared for the chaos of parenthood.
Henry was a handful, to say the least. He was a little ball of enthusiasm and ambition, insatiable in his desire for knowledge and fascinated by things he never encountered before.
During the early days of newfound parenthood, we bickered over who he looked more similar to –whose eyes he had, whose nose, whose ears– and after much negotiation, we established that he had my eyes, but your smile.
"It's a beautiful combination," you remarked softly as you held him in the hospital for the first time.
You read to him every night, and though he was too young to understand any of the stories, you still treated him as though he knew exactly what you were saying.
I would watch from the doorway of the nursery as you read, reluctant to intrude on such an intimate scene, but just as engrossed by your voice as little Henry.