Like many first-time parents, when my husband and I left the hospital with our newborn son, we were launched into the unfamiliar. Those weeks in November 2021 were a blur of all the cliches that come with having a first child. I remember not feeling confident walking up our uncarpeted stairs with such a tiny human in my arms, so we set up camp in our living room, my son’s bassinet flush against our couch.
I also remember things just arriving at our D.C. home. First, bagels and coffee. Next, boxes filled with onesies, booties, blankets and diapers, followed by an absurd amount of food. And then my son’s first piece of mail: a book from Dolly Parton.
As he grew, doubling in size and developing not one but two dimples, the food deliveries tapered, and the flurry of visitors and phone calls became less frequent. Our specialness wore off to the world; we were just another couple who were madly in love with our child. But those books from Dolly Parton kept arriving, bringing a new story into our home every month.