a record of who you are // today, summer 2026

Some things that are true about you

The penguins

You have dozens of them. Big ones and little ones, purple ones and blue ones. There's Rory Penguin and Mama Penguin, Lucky Penguin and Purple Penguin, Big Penguin and Other Big Penguin. Penguins we saw at the grocery store, and ones came from people who know you well enough to know that you love them so. They live on your bed and on your shelves and in the kitchen and on the table and wherever else they end up. No one had to teach you to love them. You just did.

What you eat

Raspberries, strawberries, blueberries. Honeydew. Pancakes with Dee. Ketchup straight-up eaten with a spoon, directly, as if it were its own food, with the confidence of someone who has considered the alternatives and found them wanting. Cheesy noodles, the kind that get messy because you haven't mastered the fork yet. And then you're "all done," and it's time to do something else. And milk. Always with the milk.

What you watch

The chicken in Moana, Hei-Hei, makes you laugh the way not many things do. It's the full kind, from somewhere deep inside. You sing Maui's song quietly to yourself when you think no one's around.

The people you call

Mia and Poppy. Pop-pop and Laurie. Baba and Dziadzi. You call them and they answer, because of course they do.

How you end a day

After you eat, you push back your chair, walk around the whole table, and climb into my lap. Then you ask for funny animals. We watch them together at the table, and you laugh, and I watch you laugh, and that is the best part of the day.

When it's time for bed, I help you walk up the stairs. We play peek-a-boo ("Where'd Rory go?", you say, covering your eyes) and I pretend I don't know where you are. I ask you if you pooped. You always say yes. You lied. You laugh. I laugh.

I used to sing to you as we walked to the bathtub. You grew out of that recently, but you still want me to take you to the bathroom. It's my greatest honor.

Every night, when Mommy brings you downstairs to get milk, you ask me what I'm making for dinner. Not because you need to know. Just because you like to know.

Your fears

New people. You cover your ears and bury your face in my leg.

New adventures. But you try it once or twice, and you love it.

Playing with other kids. You're still shy, but soon you'll make friends.

Mommy going potty without you. I promise Daddy's fun, too.

The small reliable things

✦

I didn't really want kids.

But you're pretty amazing.

And I want you to know that. Not when you're older, not in some abstract future sense, but now, while you're still the exact person who eats ketchup with a spoon and laughs at a garbage truck cartoon and climbs into my lap every single night without fail.

Right now. This version of you. This is the one I wanted to write down.

love always, your dad