Child,
You are a fire in my heart.

You are the sleepless in my night.

We share a turning, you and I. Late at night when I settle into bed, long after your Mom has curled up to sleep, I reach for you. I rest on my side and gently push against your red room. And you always push back. A kick, a punch, a rumble and tug, a twist inside; you keep my hours.

Do you feel the same perfect stillness I do, the way the cool air and darkness wrap over us like an ivy? The night is alive, full of promise and possibility. You might have the greatest idea ever for a story or hear the perfect crush of a song in the headphones. Raccoons may come prospecting in your backyard or maybe you just bounce in place, subject to a strange gravity no one admits to understanding. Every morning I make a promise to sleep and every night I break it. Sleep is all fine and good, but it feels like thievery. I drag through my days, anxious for the life the night brings. I come alive.

And there you are, bouncing and bashing around. At one, at two and even at three, I feel you swimming, rolling in space. I make guesses: hands or feet? dreaming or awake? rumba or disco?

Everyone seems delighted to warn us about sleep loss. They remind us that we won’t get a good night’s sleep for two years. Exhaustion is apparently a symptom of parenthood. I know that there will be nights when I will wish and wish that you would sleep. But I also know that the only thing that would make this very night any better would be you near me. I would love to share this time with you.

When I lay down to sleep and rest my hand on your belly home, as I will do shortly, I am briefly alone with you. I talk to you, words too quiet to hear, but sent nonetheless. I tell you about my day or about the last idea or song I heard humming through the wires. And you kick and punch and rumba along, living the night your own private way. When I drop my hand and lose my contact with you, I get sad for one minute. I can’t explain it exactly. I miss you. I wonder how long until you kick again or bash and bounce around. I feel sorry that I will miss it, finally laid low, temporarily defeated by sleep.

You are a fire in my heart.

pa-

Child,
Four years ago today, your Mom and I were married. It was a most amazing day, warm and light. I have never felt so surrounded by love; your whole family was there, celebrating with us.

The wedding was as we live, artful- in a do-it-yourself kind of way, and rich with friendship. A friend married us, another did the flowers, another the cake, the dress, the photographs and so on. Everything was important and every moment was a treasure. Friends and family stood and spoke about us, as individuals and as a couple. And then we spoke, read our vows to each other and made a lifelong promise to each other and this fierce family of yours.

I read my vows to your Mom again last night, as she drifted off to sleep. They are still true and now, even more alive. The love we honored that day is the very wire you hum through. You are a celebration of love, deep and abiding. You are founded in loyalty and honesty and fidelity. You are love manifest.

Pa-

Child,
It has been many days since I’ve written and I am sorry for that lapse. I read to your belly home and touch-feel for you everyday, but still, I have neglected a precious strand. These words represent a special continuity to me, a way to share the details of life with you, your first days, across all time and understanding. They are like a promise to me.

Much has happened lately. The robins we so fiercely defended have flown. There was a sudden explosion of feathers when your Mom opened the back door and the chicks scattered across the yard. We spent hours rounding the chicks up and planting them in trees, hoping to keep them off the treacherous ground. The cat busy backyard absolutely bustled as felines we’d never before seen appeared magically, feigning nonchalance as they scouted the tall grass on the fringes of the yard. At one point I prowled the yard wearing only a lavender towel around my midriff, chasing cats and hope.

We don’t know if any of the chicks survived. They fly and all you can do is wonder.

It’s frightening to me how much I love you.

It’s huge and scary and amazing.

Pa-