MONTHS CAN PASS

Dear Spike:

I finished a story today; one that took me nine months to complete.

There’s a rather unsettling feeling that goes along with handing an article over to an editor. Coincidentally, I’ve heard it compared to giving birth to a child and then turning it over to someone else to raise.

I’ve never been that devastated. But I will admit that, on occasion, I’ve done my best to make my editors believe I am. It’s my name on the byline, after all.

I’m thinking now about the day in which I began this project. I was at the funeral of a soldier killed in Iraq (a war which, I pray, you will know only as history) when I received word that another soldier, whose family lived nearby, had also died.

What a day that way. And yes, I can remember it as if it were yesterday.

Which scares me Spike. For nine months can pass so very quickly.

In the time it has taken me to complete this article — it focuses upon that second soldier, whose unique story I chased through Germany, Kuwait and Iraq — you will be here. And you will be dependent upon us for so much. To feed you. To bathe you. To clothe you and love you and protect you.

As you grow, you will need guidance — editing, if you will. But there will be no one to hand you over to.

Already, we’re preparing for you to come into our world. Your mother’s best friend has sent several sets of tiny clothes and miniature sandals. Your aunt has sent us organic towels, for you, and has ordered special paint for your room (yellow with green trim, I hope you will like it.) We’ve purchased a new car with your comfort and safety in mind. And I am preparing to ask my editors for a change in my schedule at work so that I can be with you in the mornings and early afternoons, while your mom is teaching school.

I concede I have some selfish concerns. I wonder, when you come, will I have time to do the many things I enjoy? To play soccer with my team and poker with my friends? To lift weights at the gym with my good friend, Matt? To paint in the middle of the night and play my guitar, on the porch, on long summer days? To make wine of the grapes in our yard? To watch the same episodes of M*A*S*H over and over and over again?

You should know that I am indeed prepared to sacrifice all these things and more for you. I am hoping I won’t have to, but I would do so without hesitation on your behalf.

Your story is being written now, my child. And I want nothing more in the world for it to be happy, healthy and long.

Love,
dad