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."
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."
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