To the baby in the restaurant,
Your parents have dressed you in a pink romper suit which, with your reddish hair, makes me think of the orange cat named Thomas which I’ll get when I have my own apartment. You’re roughly the same size as Thomas will be when he’s fully grown, and you would probably be just as good company.
You have stuck in my mind as a good kind of baby. This isn’t just because you’re happy to be sitting in your buggy on a warm summer evening, and it isn’t even the audible gurgles that you make as your Mum jangles toy keys above you as she eats her pasta. What makes you stand out from all the other babies is that you seem engaged, joyful, and squishy.
Baby in the restaurant, this blog is dedicated to you. I know you can’t read yet, but you and I both observe the world and the strangers in it with a curious fascination. You and I both have questions that we want to ask the people closest to us, we both have things we want to say. Granted, you are held back by the fact you can’t form words. I’m held back by the fact that mine flow out too quickly and passionately to be taken back. Some things just need to be written down, slept on, and edited.
Some of the people I’m writing to next are friends and family, some are strangers like you. They will all have caught my eye or deserve my thanks, in some cases I might just need to vent but for certain reasons can’t do it in person. You’ll understand when you’re older.
Save your letters, baby in the restaurant, they might be the truest thing you’ll ever hold.