A letter to you

We don't know your name yet, and we already think about you.

We won't pretend to know what you're carrying. We're not going to tell you we'd be perfect — we lose socks, we burn the first pancake, and Matt sings in the car badly and on purpose.

What we can promise is a house that's warm, a kid who's been asking for a sibling since he could talk, and as much or as little of us in your life as you want. However this goes, we're rooting for you.

Matt & Mookie
Mookie and Ollie together in the woods, looking at something in his hands
Mook & Ollie
Ollie proudly holding up a trout he caught
the famous trout
What a Tuesday looks like

Nothing fancy, honestly.

A blanket-and-cushion fort built into the stairwell

The stairs are a fort

Structurally unsound. Eleven months running. We have made peace with it.

Ollie fishing at a canyon lake

Canyon Saturdays

Twenty minutes from the driveway to a lake. We catch approximately one fish per year.

Mookie beside a large chalk mural drawn on the pavement

Mookie draws on roads

Chalk festivals, mostly. Our driveway has not been one solid color since 2019.

No obligation. No follow-up unless you ask.

It goes to both of us and nobody else.

Say hello