Abe,
Today you laughed for the first time, a magical chuckle that offically makes you the most engaging person to ever be. We were playing games with your blanket and everytime I pulled it away and popped back into view, singing, “Peek-a-boo!” in my highest, most lilting voice, you laughed. I did it time and time and time again.

The life in you dazzles me.

Pa-

Abraham,
On Christmas Eve you threw your first ever party, a smallish affair for your pick-up Portland family. There was pie and tea and fat cans of Hamm’s for your Uncle Efrem. You bounced on various laps and at times you looked vaguely alarmed. It did wind you up, so that later you could not sleep; eyes wide and shiny in the dark bedroom. At midnight your Mom danced with you in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. You two have a special orbit, like twin suns at the center of a galaxy. I’m just a planet spinning.

We had breakfast for lunch, enjoying what might be the last lazy Christmas morning for a very long time. Your Mom recalls playing cards with her brothers and sister in the earliest morning, impatient for gift-receiving. I would wake first and plug in the tree. In the kaleidoscope light I would open my stocking: pens and pencils and once, cherries fermented in sweet liquor all packaged in a small glass boot.

We walked in Forest Park. I carried you in the Bjorn and you slept so soundly you snored, No matter how gray the Portland day, Forest Park always glows green with rain-light. I held you near the creek and you slept on the sound of water moving. There are salamanders in this creek, but we did not disturb them on this day. Later you woke and were wide-eyed at the green world going by.

After a nap we opened presents with interruptions for dinner and your bed times. You got clothes and toys and a stuffed termite from your Grandma, who goes in for that kind of thing. You also got a very nicely illustrated reference book on poetic forms.

This of course, from your

Pa-

Abraham,
We took a walk this evening on a perfect Portland night. It’s almost warm and the raindrops aren’t falling so much as forming in the air around you. Everything is shiny and cars going by sound like paper tearing.

On these walks I wear you in a contraption called a Baby Bjorn. You rest against my chest, your face smooshed into my shirt, your rugged new orthopedic shoes dangling dangerously close to my privates. You are already long and lean like me. When I carry you like this, we make our own little orbit and everything outside us is small and unimportant. We exclude the world. You fall asleep once we start really moving and I fold my sweatshirt around you like wings. We blaze a trail through puddles and down long aisles in the grocery store. It reminds me of walks I took in Korea. I would pull on my sunglasses and my headphones and walk so swiftly, flying under the prying radar of locals curious about the lone roundeye in the neighborhood. I would listen to Catfish Hunter, a stark and compelling soundtrack to the vivid world around me. I would always start in the street market near my house and then wander wherever distraction carried me. I always ended up at the ocean, drawn by strange gravity. I could walk five miles and never feel the earth beneath me. With you close, walks are just that new and alive. We are visitors on a fantastic planet. Cats and nice clerks in stores are benevolent aliens but we take quick evasive action to avoid being detained by solicitors and the baby-curious. We exclude the world. I only wish I could walk you to the sea.

Pa-

Abe,
It’s been a busy weekend, as we try to get all of our Christmas cards and gifts together. Never content enough to just go shopping, we try to make everything ourselves. There are drawbacks to this approach, some of which you mentioned to us in passing yesterday, when we turned the house inside out and scattered paper and pens like flower seeds. Your Mom and I both have a knack for disappearing into our projects. We forget everything else around, which you found sort of boring, stuck as you were, wherever we thought to put you. We ate on the floor all weekend, to be closer to you in your bouncing chair, but also because the table was buried under art supplies. You held your first Sharpie and critiqued my layout ideas.

The days are just packed.

Pa-

Abraham,
Everyday you are more alive than the last. Your eyes are dark and shiny, full of thought and wonder. We stare at each other forever, smiling at all the stupid things I do to entertain you. We are all amazed at the world you are waking up to.

Today you were full of sounds, some like words, some like curious cats. Today your Advent calendar contained a pineapple. Today you hold your head up high, intrigued by the new view. Today you screamed like a banshee in the car seat.

You have a bedtime ritual now. We dance with you to you Bob Marley’s ‘Rebel Music.’ I love that you love such fierce protest music. It fits your strong voice. In the midst of the dancing, you end up in your pajamas. This can be a delicate business as you have some strong opinions about sleeves. After dancing, we swaddle you, wrapping you tightly in fabric, until you look like a tiny bean with big eyes. Swaddling is a new discovery, one that helps you immeasurably; your arms still have lives of their own and frequently swing wildly, wacking you in the face unless contained. You sleep better without such abuse. Good night kisses all around and then your Mom nurses you into sweet slumber.

It’s a good life.

Pa-

Abraham,
Your Grandma Cynthia came to visit last week. She was here for one happy day without your casts and she weathered the first days after your surgery with us all. She told you stories in a quiet voice, a private conversation between Grandma and Grandson into which parents best not intrude. She bounced you and rocked you and marveled at your beauty and charm. She brought you a book about two pigs named Toot and Puddle. She did dishes and gave your Mom and I a chance to take a twenty minute walk around the neighborhood all by ourselves, our first private time not stolen while you were sleeping.

We all had Thanksgiving dinner together with my friend Cheyney, a wandering soul I met in Korea almost a decade ago. We gave thanks for your health and well-being, your strong voice and willingness to share your thoughts and ideas. We gave thanks for friends and family and community, a network of amazing people that spans the globe. One of my favorite things about my life with your Mom is having our own holiday celebrations. In many ways they define family for me. And now those celebrations take on a new richness, as this family grows. Already, you have your first Advent calendar. It hangs on the wall near your ‘low gallery’, a collection of photographs and other art at ground level. Today we opened a small door on the Advent calendar and found a tiny blue teddy bear. Tomorrow, another treasure.

G’night.

Pa-