We sort of knew but didn't quite know: in about nine hours, we'd be parents.
I went to take a shower because that seemed like a good idea and then we packed a hospital bag. I was 40 weeks and 5 days pregnant with you. Friends had been asking for weeks, "have you packed a hospital bag?" I'd taken to saying yes, just to let the nagging cease. I had a perfect vision of a hospital bag, intricately articulated. But we hadn't packed one. It seems like something you should know about us, your dad and I. We're great dreamers and sometimes we'd rather spend more time laying on the couch, legs entwined, and dream deeper, than get up and do anything practical like pack a hospital bag. You're a dreamer, too, darlin'. You're just like that.
Half a decade to the minute ago, I was about to become a parent; I was about to become your mother. I'd begin to learn the many ways you're just like us, and the quirky ways you're like no one I've ever known.
You know that hospital bag we packed? We didn't need it. We didn't use anything from it. All we needed was you.
At 6:01 tomorrow morning, you'll be five years old. I want you to know: these have been the best five years of my life.