IN AMAZING WAYS

Dear Spike:

Yesterday marked nine months since the day you were born — and so as of today, you’ve officially spent more time “out” than “in.”

In spite of the fact that you’re still hovering around 13 pounds, the growth we’ve seen since the day you arrived has fascinated me in ways I can’t begin to describe.

You still rely on us for so very much. For food, comfort, warmth and for protection from the cat (who is growing a tad bit ornery about the way you “pet” him.) But you’ve also learned to communicate and interact with us in amazing ways. You sign to us when you want milk. You call to your mother when you see her walking up the steps to our door when she gets home from work.

Lately, we have begun to play a game called “Superman” in which you raise your hand above your head and we, in response, “fly” you around the room. And on your own, you’ve begun to play a game I call “Mess with Daddy’s Mind” in which you begin to cry when I turn away from you, then laugh when I turn back to face you.

Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. I feel like a puppet. Or one of those fuzzy-hatted green-skinned guards from the Wizard of Oz... “Oh-weeeee-oh, Ooooh-oh!”

You spent the last three days sick with some sort of ugly stomach bug. As fast as we could pump in the Pedialite you were pumping it out the other end. And yet we didn’t once have to change a wet or messy diaper. You let us know when you needed to go and we obliged. I know I shouldn’t be so fascinated by these sorts of things, but I can’t help it.

And yet, beyond it all, I still look at you and shake my head and simply cannot believe what happened in the nine months before you arrived — how you went from a few small cells to a tiny-but-tough baby girl, with 10 fingers and 10 toes and two eyes and two ears and one cute little belly button seemingly holding it all together in one place.

When your Godmother told us she was pregnant, last month, we quickly rushed out to buy her a book with pictures of all the developmental stages of her baby. Before we sent it off to Oregon, I flipped through its pages and imagined what you once looked like inside the person you now call “mama.”

Amazing.

Amazing.

I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to look into your eyes and not feel awestruck by this miracle. I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to run my fingers through your hair and not be overwhelmed by this gift.

I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to hold your hand in mine and not feel as though the world, spinning round and round and round for so many billions of years, hasn’t suddenly stopped in place in recognition of the moment.

You wow me.

Love,
dad