There are so many things I don't know about you, Caleb. I don't know what color hair you would have had - or if you'd have had any at all (you were bald as a doorknob when I met you!). I don't know if you would have had your dad's brilliant blue eyes (I hoped so) or my big brown ones. I don't even know if you would have looked like a Caleb. I don't know when you would have taken your first step or said your first word. Maybe big goofy Riley would have inspired you to say 'dog.' I don't know what your favorite color would have been, if you would have preferred the swings or the slide, or what flavor of ice cream would have been your favorite. Would we have celebrated your birthday with a theme? Maybe you would have been into trains, or dinosaurs, or baseball. I don't know if you would have taken after my side of the family and been tall, or your dad's and been average (okay...short!). I don't know what subject in school would have been your favorite, what you would have majored in at college, or what your first job would have been. Working at a fast food place? Mowing lawns? Maybe your dad would have hooked you up with a job at Google. I don't know if you would have gotten married and had kids of your own. There is so much I don't know and will never know.
Here is what I do know:
I know you weighed 9.5 ounces and were 9.5 inches long.
I know you had long, slender fingers, the teeniest fingernails, and big feet.
I know you had a perfect, tiny, ski-jump nose.
I know you had your dad's chin.
I know when you were born you tucked your hand under your chin, which is the same gesture I make when I'm thinking.
I know that when you were six weeks old, you looked exactly like a jellybean with a heartbeat.
I know that when you were thirteen weeks old, you waved to us during the ultrasound, and that you jumped and flipped around so much that the tech had a hard time getting the measurements she needed.
I know that whenever the midwife tried to listen to your heart with the doppler at the office, you'd move around and make her job difficult, but when I did it at home you'd sit in the same place and let me listen.
I know that you had just started making your presence known to me in the form of kicks and wiggles.
I know you liked it when I read Shel Silverstein poems to you. (Or at least I like to think so.)
I know I wanted you more than anything.
I know I loved you more than anything.
I know you were safe and warm in my belly, until you weren't.
I don't know what impact you would have had on the world.
All I know is the impact you had on my small world.