Dear Ava,
I want to write you a quick note to tell you that, unfortunately, you’ve been born to a father who is almost certainly going to embarrass you dozens and dozens of times before you leave home. Bad jokes. Bad clothes. Bad singing. You name it.
And when you’re standing with your friends in front of the junior high, red-faced and hot because I’ve just yelled, “I love you, sweetie!” as you got out of the car, I’d like you to try to remember that — for all my faults — at least I gave you a beautiful name.
I’m mentioning this now because of a photo I saw in the newspaper this morning. More precisely, the caption under the photo was what got me thinking. The picture shows three little girls, only a little older than you are now, playing with a wagon. Their names, according to the paper, are Jassy, Jordyn, and Alee.
Right after you were born, I ran from the nursery (where you were getting cleaned up, warmed, and clothed) to your mother’s recovery room to ask her what she thought we should name you. We had three girl names picked out, but the moment I saw your face, I knew your name had to be Ava. I’d never known anyone named Ava before that day, but my impression of the name was that it was pretty, and classy, and maybe even a little bit sassy, all like you.
You’re two now, and you’re growing into your name very nicely. Ava is turning out to be perfect for you, and as you grow up in front of our eyes, it strikes me that Ava is also a beautiful name for a young lady and a mature woman (a “big girl,” like your mommy). You seem to like saying your name now, and you can even spell it, sometimes. I hope that you enjoy having it as you get older, and I hope you find it as beautiful as your mommy and daddy find you.