When you were born we wrapped you in the cotton blanket supplied by the nurse, stripes of pink and blue contingency for any gender. We swaddled you, like a burrito we said, and they told us it was like you were still in the womb where you knew you were safe.
When we took you home we strapped you in a car seat, rear facing and covered in fleece to protect you from the cold, straps secured at five points to protect you from everything else. And when we got you home we unbuckled it all and wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into. We locked the doors and kept everything else out.
When you wanted to go outside we celebrated; and, we assembled the snow pants and the boots and the long underwear and the heavy coat and the hat and the mittens and the sunglasses and the sunscreen. And then we told you to be careful.
When the world broke your heart we apologized that we weren’t there to wrap you, so we held you tight so that your heart wouldn’t spill out anymore than it already had. We didn’t tell you this would happen again, and again, and how sorry we are that we couldn’t wrap you any tighter.
