Tomorrow you will be one month old! Born February 6. It wasn't easy for you or your mother, I know, but you were beautiful from the first instant I heard your voice and saw you. When I held your cheek to your mother's we both cried -- and you may have joined in. It was hard to see because the world looked so underwater.
It is strange -- and especially difficult for me -- that in the four weeks since your birth I haven't been able to write a darn thing. (No, it's not sleep deprivation; your mother has more of that!)
You are so much on my mind that I realize that everything I am doing is filtered through some lens of what does this mean for us. We three. We blessed three.
When it was just your mother and me, we had things together, sure; we had our jobs and paid the mortgage; went to wacky Wagner operas. There was never a sense that these things mattered to anyone but us. It seemed so much easier then.
But now I feel something I haven't felt for a while now, I realize that I want so much for you to be proud of me. The same way I wanted my parents to be proud of me, but different.
This is scarier. When I was a child as (I think) you will learn soon enough, you find yourself surprised when your parents don't seem proud of you, when you feel you've disappointed them. And you'll be even more surprised that these huge, looming creatures can disappoint you.
My father, your grandfather died just a little over one year ago and I remember how hard I worked to get his approval. And even now that weighs on my mind.
As much as I always want you to know you are loved and cared for. I know there will be times when you feel you don't live up to some standard I'm setting. (You'll find out soon enough (and I'm sure your mother will tell you) I have all kinds of high and unrealistic standards that I always want to reach.)
I've never been a father before and all I know about this is what I've seen others do. I feel more than a little inadequate with such a precious thing like you in my arms....
But please know two things: first, I can't imagine EVER feeling any different than I do at this moment, that most of all I want you to be Happy. There are so many beautiful and wonderful gifts in this world, dear Imelda, that I want you to see these as gifts for you. And I don't want you to ever confuse Happiness for Pleasure. Although you can see them happen at the same time; they are two very different things. Whether you believe or not, it you can be happy when things are unpleasant; and when you do those will be the times you understand what real happiness is.
(Take right now, for example, I'm sitting in a coffeeshop as I write this and it's a really good thing it's early, because I'm crying. A lot. Actual sobbing crying. Weird, huh? But that's how happy I am (and scared.) Writing about this, about wanting Happiness for someone you love is hard and sorta heartbreaking in its own way.)
Because here's the second thing I want you to know: if you ever feel that I am not proud of you, or that I'm disappointed in you, please know that I am far more disappointed in myself and how often I fall short of my own ideals. But you are always loved.
I've had enough therapy in my life to know that some of that is because I am still trying to please a father who is dead and a mother who is lost in her own deep, seemingly infinite, sadness.... I know that they both love me and each in their own way feel as if they have fallen short.
Which is why, my dear, dear child, I need you to know that this one thing will NEVER change: you are our miracle and if we ever forget that, it's simply because we're human and can be so easily distracted.
And which brings me to why I found myself kneeling in a church on Ash Wednesday at the start of what is Lent, forty days of preparation for the resurrection of Christ. All of our lives, sweetheart, are bookended by the miracle of birth and the miracle of resurrection. And we forget.
When I got up and walked to the altar, the priest (who had a slightly runny nose and looked all-too-human) dipped his palm into the ashes and made a sign of the cross on my forehead. As the ritual goes, the priest says the words from the very first book of the Bible, Genesis: "Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shall return."
I know, I know it sounds like a sort of sad way to remember that we're living, breathing miracles. But it is reality and sometimes we need a good reminder of it that we're here just this one time. As the saying goes: This is not a rehearsal. We've got just this one performance on Earth. So here (after all of that!) is my Ash Wednesday prayer for you:
May you know always that I love you, that I want your life in this world to be filled with the joy of knowing that it is all gift. Please know that you are our gift and that we will do everything we can to get it "right" but please forgive me for falling short and forgetting all of these things I hold in my heart, my don't always make it out to the tips of my fingers or tongue.
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