With that in mind, I've decided to post some of the writings I did for my kids. It'll be nice to have them somewhere I can retrieve them. I'll post the 3 letters for my daughter over the next few days, and Jack's will follow sometime soon, since I don't have them with me and it's too much sap even for me.
So without further ado...Part I
THE ULTRASOUND
I saw you today...for the first time. You were sucking your thumb (like I used to). I saw your heart beat; the tiny valves opened and closed in time with the beats emanating from the speaker. I saw your diaphragm contracting and relaxing as you tested your new lungs on the fluid surrounding you. I saw your tiny leg, with your perfect tiny bones. I should have been looking away in case your sex became apparent, but I couldn’t. I’ll meet you soon, but in the meantime, I’m your dad. I’m the one responsible for the hippy music you hear piped into your perfect holding compartment.
Halfway into pregnancy, I’ve found my thoughts have stopped focusing on all the things that can go wrong with growing a smaller, and hopefully less hairy, version of myself in a little balloon. Rather, I’ve started to dwell on what happens when this “thing” goes according to plan. Who am I kidding? I’m not a father. My father is a father. I’m a son. Sometimes I forget to brush my teeth. Sometimes I knowingly decide not to brush my teeth. Does that sound like a father to you? I didn’t think so. But now my father is your grandfather, and truth be told, he doesn’t seem much like a grandpa to me. But he will to you.
I can’t wait to meet you. I go to bed every night with my hand on your mother’s stomach, hoping you’ll kick. I wake up every morning with dreams of you fading away. I get weepy watching diaper commercials. I’m a complete sap. I used to be masculine, even macho. Now, I guess I’m a father...almost.
I don’t know if you’re my son or my daughter. I don’t care.
I use to want a son -- a perfect version of myself to achieve all the things I couldn’t. But I don’t want to be that guy at a soccer game for five year olds.
I used to want a daughter -- an angelic blessing with your mother’s eyes, who I can pamper and baby forever. But I don’t want you to ever date… at least not guys like me. We’re trouble.
Now I don’t care if you’re a boy or a girl. I want you to be you, however that turns out. I want to watch you make the mistakes I did and some I didn’t, knowing that a better person is on the other side. I want you to be happy. That would make me happy.
I guess my point is that parenting, even at this early stage, is all about fear. There’s the fear that something could go wrong. There’s the fear that I won’t be good enough. There’s the fear that you’ll turn out terribly. And there’s the fear that it will be all my fault. I’ve never taken care of anyone before, including myself. Now, I have nine months to prepare for a lifetime of taking care of you. (Actually, three-plus months…I’ve procrastinated…as usual.) It doesn’t really seem fair, does it?
I’m also learning that parenting is about joy and love and pride and beauty. I am filled with joy whenever I think that in the time it’ll take the
I promise to try and not embarrass you, unless I really am trying to embarrass you. I promise to teach you what I’ve learned, unless I don’t want you to know certain aspects of my history. I promise to understand your music, unless it’s bad. And I promise to go easy on you, unless you need some tough love.
More than anything, I need you to get here safe, healthy and as soon as possible, because you’re killing your mother, but in a good way.
In the meantime…
I have a picture of you now. It’s grainy, small and black and white. It’s not enough. I need to see you, to hold you, to feed you. I want to protect you. I will protect you. I love you already, and you’re not even here yet.
Life changes in a heartbeat. I found that out when I heard yours. Be safe, be happy and be loved. I’ll see you in a few months. For now, I’m content to look at your picture.
7-31-04
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