MEET THIS WORLD

Dear Spike:

Three months have passed since the day you arrived. It’s amazing to me how life can seem to move so fast and so slow at once. It’s hard to remember what life was like without you. I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in your short lifetime. And at the same time, I feel like it’s gone by so quickly.

You’re still so very small — people mistake you for a newborn — but to me you seem so big. You are, after all, twice the size you were when you were born, with beautiful chubby cheeks and ever-fattening legs. You’ve long since grown out of your premie clothes. And with every passing day, it seems, we find another outfit no longer fits you.

Your first act, every morning, is a smile. And lately, you’ve been finishing the day with an hour-long screamfest that your mother and I have come to call the “9 o’clock freak out.” It’s OK, though, we love you still.

You no longer need us to support your head. And I can’t help but think you’re practicing to meet this world with your head held high. You look so confident, I feel like I could send you off to college tomorrow.

And, at the same time, I worry that I’ll be sending you off to college tomorrow. Everyone tells us: “It goes so fast — enjoy it while you can.”

So this month, at least, you and I are going to slow things down. Today was my first day of paternity leave, and we celebrated with a morning stroll through the aviary. As usual, you perked up when you heard the peacocks, the cuckaburra and the cranes call out. And I think I saw you following one particular scarlet ibis as it dashed back and forth about its cage.

Tomorrow, maybe, we’ll go too the zoo. Or perhaps we’ll just sit in the backyard, in the hammock, and swing and swing and swing.

I’ll read you a book. Maybe we’ll take a nap together. Maybe I’ll bring out my guitar and play you a song or two or three. And maybe I’ll write you a new one.

And we’ll live another lifetime together.

Love,
dad