I wanted to write you a long and profound letter about how it feels, and what it means, to be your Mommy, but in the last week or so I had to give up writing altogether, put all of my creative projects on indefinite hold, and practically cancel my entire life, because I was too busy being flabbergasted by watching you do this:
Just to make sure we are clear on the facts - you are six months ten days old, and you already climb on the furniture. Listen, baby. I am not worried about myself anymore. I'll adapt to this new and fast development of things, and somehow I'll pick up again. Now, you on the other hand... you have a serious problem. Because, at that rate, Cambridge might not suffice.
But hey, you can be the President one day. And if that don't quite cut it either, there's always the Space, baby.