…is my parents’ 33rd anniversary. To celebrate they are in Peru hiking the Inca Trail, wearing baby alpaca knit caps, and feasting on Guinea pig. And I will say this, in honor of my parents and all parents out there:
You can never truly understand how much your parents love you until you have a child of your own.
(Here they are hanging with their first grandbaby in Yosemite.)
My appreciation for the job of parenthood (quite obviously) has grown one thousand fold over the last six months. Sometimes I can almost feel my heart breaking for my parents when I think about what it must have been like raising my brother and I. Not that we were bad. We were probably average in terms of bad vs. goodness, but just the sheer emotion that goes into practically everything you do for your children must have been exhausting, exhilarating, and at times heart-wrenching. Every time we fought or bumped our heads or went off to camp or even to a friend’s house for the night, I’m sure a little piece of their hearts went with us.
And I sort of understood that in an intellectual way, but not in the entirely raw way I understand it now. It’s just a different kind of love, that I wouldn’t trade for anything in whole wide universe.
This weekend I will be recovering from a cold, which I caught from my baby. Thank you baby. I will take anything you want to give me.