A few days after we came home from the hospital, I sent a letter to a friend, including a photo of my son and some first impressions of fatherhood. He responded, simply, “Everything is possible again.” It was the perfect thing to write, because that was exactly how it felt. We could retell our stories and make them better, more representative or aspirational. Or we could choose to tell different stories. The world itself had another chance. -Jonathan Safran Foer, Eating Animals

Most days it’s hard to put a finger on why I love the newest additions to our family so strongly. I have a terrible habit of forgetting to surround myself with framed photos, and these little ones are front and center in my frames at home. Reading this passage reminded me that suddenly I have become a Storyteller.

Instead of sitting at someone’s feet listening to stories, I can teach my cousins about our family and its importance. I can tell Elsa and the twins that our Grandma Addie took photos of clouds with disposable cameras, I can train them to always ask for carrot cake, and we can take trips around the land that our grandparents own. Suddenly, my life experience is not the stuff of reports to my elders, but fodder for stories for a younger generation. Their presence in my life seems so full of possibility; their accomplishments, joys, and talents like a bulb beneath the ground waiting to unfold; their antics the details of stories that I will tell everyone I come in contact with. I have such pride in their very existence, such confidence and expectancy about their lives. Because they’re here, I am determined ever more than ever to make the world a better place, because suddenly it’s not just my world, but theirs. Everything is possible again.

This photo cracks me up when I see it. Poor children, but aren’t they cute with their tears?