Thank you for everything.
I never really had to try. I am fortunate—perhaps spoiled—that my childhood was relatively easy.
I lived in good neighborhoods, went to good schools, never worried about much beyond what other kids thought of me. And though I might look back and think, “If only they’d pushed me more, if only they’d let me experience failure and disappointment, I wouldn’t be struggling to lie in such a messy bed today.”—now that I’m a parent myself, I know how ridiculously hard it is to raise a child.
The last six years have shown me, more than any other time in my life, how we’re all clearly just trying to do the best we can with what we’ve got where we are at any particular moment. We’re all in the same pool. Sometimes we’re swimming. Sometimes we’re treading water.
Increasingly, I notice the two of you in my day to day—in my own words and actions.
I find myself doing things you used to do, saying things you used to say.
You did good. You raised me right.
I love you both.