Fresh From God

We have enjoyed every moment with Lucy. And while she sleeps a lot, she's starting to become aware of her surroundings, quietly. Tonight, a snippet of this and, to borrow the phrase of a little girl in the store the other day, I invite you to watch it, because she's fresh from God.

On The Day She Came

Lucy Hall. Lighter than her brother, smaller too. Looks a good deal like him at this point. Though, the Mrs. informs me she has a sprouting, Daddy-like cowlick. Her eyes are shyer than Isaac's, always half-hid, darker and still that bold beautiful blue. Yes. She has burrowed into my heart very nicely.

We named her Lucy for a couple of reasons. Both coming to each of separately. The Mrs. likes the named because of it's meaning: "Light". Which gives us, now laughter and light in our house. A grand metaphor for our two children. My passion for it came about from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" which stands as my favorite children's book. Lucy was the main character in that story. The first into Narnia and it's wonders. I imagine my little girl taking me to those types of places. To snow-covered lands with anachronistic lampposts and strange white stallions. And a talking Lion.

On the Day She Came we completely expected her to arrive. We didn't wait long for it, only some three hours. We are happy happy happy. Isaac held her numerous times, put his giant hand on her little face in awe at the size difference between the two of them. On the day she came I held her the first time and cried. Unexpectedly. Softly. Proudly. The Mrs cried long, fast, wet tears.

The day she came is winding down. I'm at home. Mom and Lucy are sleeping or feeding or holding each other in that Pieta, that impenetrable shield of love between mother and child. The words fade with the minutes. The ideas and thoughts and phone calls have dwindled for the moment. I'm left trying to figure the wonderfulness of it all out. And I can't. I can't. But it's there, hidden, burrowed down into my heart, waiting to burst forth in those glorious moments of parenthood. Those times when you're caught unawares and left unhinged by the abounding love and joy your child brings.

And so on the the day Lucy's come, to borrow a phrase, I'm willing to rip open my chest and find all the new treasures that are there.

On The Day Before You Came

I'll be honest, I thought this day had already come. Every morning I woke up, I tried to ruminate on the previous day: Was that the day before you came? But that day just hasn't happened until now. So I woke up this morning, three times: Once to meet your brother at the foot of our bed, once with my head cricked on the bean bag in your brother's room and third time back in my bed. I woke up this morning, the day before you came and so far nothing much has happened. I made myself a cold coffee drink and a bagel. Your brother gave me a kiss before I left and told me "Bye Daddy, see you in the morning." He says the funniest things. I just finished some pretzels and downed a liter of water. I wanted a snack from the vending machine but it was found lacking.

I know your mother (who your brother affectionately has taken to calling Moms) is nervous. Her mind, if I know her, is wandering today. Mine too, for that matter. I wonder incessantly about you. What you will look like, how you will laugh and sing and dance. How you will react to your mildly insane older brother who will smother you with his affection and opinions. I wonder about all the things a typical parent wonders about. How much will everything change tomorrow? Beyond that: how much will it change like we are expecting it to change? I know, slightly metaphysical for you. Perhaps I won't read this to you until you're a little older then.

I'm trying to think if I've got anything profound to offer you about the day before you were born. If some prescient bright shining star or angelic rapture or heaven stricken silence has occurred. Some moment that signifies the leaping off of some great height, across some great chasm, landing, tomorrow, with you in our arms. And on the day before you come, I've not been able to find anything. And I think it's because I don't know you yet. I don't know, that maybe the way the sky has cleared brilliantly will be indicative of your eyes. Or that I've heard a song on the radio that will one day be your favorite song. Or the man you will marry was born today. Or your best friend was born today on the day before you came. Or the person who will help you the most in this life stubbed their toe and set off a serious of events that will culminate in the moment you need them the most. I don't know.

I know this day will meld into tomorrow and the next and next. That your presence in my life will work backwards. That's how love tends to work. It stretches out infinitely in the present, reaches ahead of us into the future, and becomes inextricably and inexorably intermingled with our pasts.

The rest of my day will pass by. I'll finish work. Go to the gym. Go home. Have dinner with your grandparents and aunt and cousins -- spaghetti!- and spend my night trying not to think about what I can't help but think about. Maybe I'll look for a profundity or two for you. One I'll share with you and tell you about over and over again. One you'll get tired of hearing but will want to hear nonetheless. I'll keep my eyes and ears open.

But as this night wanes, as it heads off to that second star to the right and I close my eyes and put my hand across Moms belly and feel you kicking inside, on the day before you came, I will say to you "Good night, sweet daughter, see you in the morning."