Reminiscences on Fatherhood
Presented in No Particular Order in Five Acts

1.
She is beautiful, this daughter of ours. How providence could smile so brightly upon one life among billions fills me with a gratitude of which I feel unworthy. Thank you God. Thank you Universe of higher beings…
2.
How many nights will we not sleep together? I wonder, yet the joy of being a father makes it easy to be without sleep. I awaken gladly, if unwillingly, from my slumber because my family awaits me.
3.
I see we shall become close acquaintances, neck ache, shoulder knots, and numb wrists. Never has time passed so easily as it does when I have her to look upon, her to hold and comfort, her to protect and guide. Why would I give her up, when I can memorize the fluttering eyelids, the dreamy faces that pull the new skin like soft putty in many directions? Oh. Because mother demands it. It is time to nurse. Awaken, little one. You will be duly compensated for this rude interruption in the currency of warm milk. Sigh. What purpose do my nipples serve, but to twiddle despondently as I await my next cuddle session, sashaying around the room, humming meaningless tunes, smiling easily?
4.
You cry not to annoy or befuddle us. You cry not out of helpless ignorance, like a wad of jelly undulating uselessly in the vast space before linguistic consciousness. No. You wail at mother and I out of efficiency, out of perfect necessity. How can we ever be upset at you, when it is up to us to decipher your language? Knowing this, I pass the time patiently as you cry; I smile, crack jokes, and tick off the reasons you flail about until I choose correctly. A chocolatey surprise this time. Clean, you calm and melt into peace.
5.
Do you dream? What few bits of this world your mind has at its command, what meager box of building blocks from which it can construct a sleepy tale. Yet dream you must, for I see those fluttering lids, that pliable face; I hear those warm googles and gagas and the quiet yammering of a fresh mind at play. Dream on, dear child, for I must catch a few nocturnal butterflies of mine own.
This is but a small piece of my lifelong daily writing practice (Day 132–4). If you enjoyed this, you may also like some of my other writing.
