FEELING LIKE THIS

Dear Spike:

It’s 2:18 a.m. and we’re all awake. Me. Your mom. And you.

It’s too early to believe we need go to the hospital, but it does appear that time is getting closer. You mom’s contractions have become very strong — so strong that they are waking her up.

And she, in turn, is waking me.

“Another one,” she whispers.

“2:12 a.m.,” I whisper back.

We fall asleep.

“Another one,” she whispers.

“2:18 a.m.,” I whisper back.

Now we’re both fully awake. She’s pacing in the hallway, rubbing her back and breathing heavily. I’m tapping at the computer.

“This is another,” she says.

“2:23 a.m.” I say.

There’s no feeling like this in the world. It’s Christmas Eve mixed with the top of Disney’s Matterhorn. A little bit of the pre-soccer game jitters. A little of the apprehension I had the first time I went to war.

Airplane turbulance. Raging hunger. Communion prayer.

It’s they way I felt when I stared into your mother’s eyes the night we were married. It’s the way I felt when we kissed behind the curtains at the reception the night before.

It’s a little bit of staring out over the ocean. It’s a little bit of standing on the side of a cliff.

This could last weeks. Or just a few hours more.

2:28... 2:32... 2:36...

2:39... 2:42...

2:45...

I love you.

Love,
dad

Dear Spike's Friends:
Spike's mom just now: "Am I permitted to change my pool date, or is that like Martha Stewart selling her stocks?"
I shouldn't let her get away with this. But she's really cute. And really scared.
Spike's mom's new date is May 28, 12 to 1 a.m.
Love,
Spike's Dad.