138 Days in the Son
Dear Keston,
I want to write so much to you about what you are like and how far we have come in the first 138 days of your existence upon this planet, but everytime I try the words come jumbled to my head and I cannot sort them out to save my life. How very changed we all have become since that chilly November day! You most of all, of course, but Mummy and I have both grown and stretched in ways that we didn’t think were possible. I have read that your brain changes once you become a parent, realigning thanks to hormones and the stresses of taking care of a child, and perhaps mine has — I’ve become unable to formulate a decent sentence about the one thing that consumes most of my free time aside from work. Your daddy desperately needs a nap, I think.
I remember driving home that day we left the hospital to bring you back to Sheffield; I remember thinking that this was it, we were a family, and off we went to our own adventure, bolstered by all the advice and care that we had received at the hospital, through books, and by conversations, and confident we could keep on going. At the same point, however, I remember wondering what in the heck I was doing? Was this really real, and would we actually make it?
There is nothing like a baby to keep your reality in check, however. Between constant demands for feeding, changing, entertainment, and sleep, you were a handful right from the start, filling our lives with mounds of poopy diapers, bottles to wash, and early-morning feedings. It wasn’t so much a matter of trying to figure things out as it was a plight for survival. Our lives were transformed simply by your expressed need to live and grow.
Slowly we all grew towards each other, figuring out how everyone worked, where tolerance lay, and what the expectations were. I figure Mummy and I adjusted the most, but I wonder how many times you gave us some slack on purpose, knowing that, despite our many fumbles and guesses at how next to do something, we were trying our hardest and did whatever we could to make you happy.
And now, here we are, over 4 and a half months later. You are now a fuzzy-headed little boy, weighing in at a whopping 19 pounds, 14 ounces and 25.5 inches long, sliding neatly into 12-month outfits and causing your mother no end of headaches as she sorts clothing, trying to find something that will fit you. You are anything but fat, just a solid kid. “Built like a brick shithouse,” as they say, and you look like you could weather just about any storm thrown at you.
You are the insatiable cat, just daring curiosity to come around the corner and whack you over the noggin. Your favorite spot is upright, as you can scan the room and take everything in; lying down simply doesn’t hold much of a fascination to you and, unless you are sleepy, only drives you nutty as you attempt to check out the room and everything in it. You can just see the little sponge in your head working overtime to try to process all of the information slamming into it from every angle and it’s fascinating to watch your gears grind and ears steam.
In the past two weeks there’s been a definite mental change in you — you’re starting to really pay pointed attention to particular things instead of randomly gazing around and looking at stuff. When Mummy or I talk, you’re focused on us…on the conversation…and more than once we’ve caught you tennis-gaming between us as we speak. Your gaze is now smarter, more concentrated….I love looking into your eyes because they usually shine with an eager, amused look. Your internal commentary would probably fascinate me if I only I could hear it.
Mummy and you have been having all sorts of photo shoots, and you’re really becoming a natural at posing and tossing on a smile that could crack plate glass. You’ll probably hate us both for all the pictures we have you in and the dumb things we’re having you do or wear, but I guess that’s part of parenting — making your kids embarrased. Right?
I love that I can make peals of laughter erupt from you just by tickling your ribs or making a funny face from across the room. Your laughter is like sunshine on a dragonfly on a wind chime — fun and tinkling and utterly enrapturing. A sad kid you’re not — happy smiles all the time, even when you’re sick or just got shots or are sleepier than a sack of rutabagas. I haven’t the faintest idea how you manage to be so cheerful all the time, but keep it up — the world’s a pretty cynical place, you deserve a few good years yet.
You’re still not sleeping through the night, up every few hours for food, but you’re getting better. Mummy and I keep trying to find out what’s wrong with your food (fixed that one!), your skin (maybe fixed — so far, so good), and your sleeping (still working on that) because we want you to be happy and healthy. I hope you never think that we aren’t in this for the long haul; if you ever doubt, I’ll show you the insurance claims, hrm?
I could go on for ages about you and what you’re doing and how you are to be around, but Daddy’s readers would start to yawn and glance at their watches. Plus, how do you accurately describe the wonderful way you smell when you snuggle your nose into my neck, or the feeling of your arms around me, gripping me tight? How can I possibly capture in words the infinite way you look at me, how no matter how heavy you get I never want you to leave my arms, and how I can’t think about you for very long without tears coming to my eyes?
I think I’ll just stop right here.
Love, Daddy
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