Almost a year has passed since the hours before I became a father. A parent. A Pops. What comprises that year?
Surely 365 calendar days, the most important thing between birthdays–rather, between the birth day and its anniversary. Or should we wait the extra day because this first year was a leap year? Or should we wait the extra 6 hours to make sure the Sun is in the same place in the sky? Or should we wait the extra 20 minutes to make sure the Earth is in the same place for any and every thing around those fixed stars watching us?
The 52 weeks it was, a couple days ago, that lined up with the weekend when I was still a singlet of a couple bleeding into the week when we became a trio–that seems an important count. Or maybe it’s those first weeks and weekly days that I stay home in order to shepherd my little one into this loud, dry, cold, bright world. Or maybe it’s all of the hours spent awake–daylight or otherwise–loving, worrying, caring, and feeling and trying and failing at so many fresh and strong things.
Twelve teeth later; 6 to 8 unassisted steps later; many inches of hair, fingernails, and height later; many pounds later; countless smiles and tears later I find myself stealing more than just a couple minutes to jot down these thoughts so I can share them. Because I am a parent now, and so is my spouse. And it’s very special, and I love it. And every day things change a little, and from month to month you can see the big differences. But that bifurcation–when one becomes two, and when two become three–is so emblematically and simultaneously a singular moment as well as this long, arduous, and powerful journey together that it’s worth taking pause, taking note. Taking at least a single moment now to feel the memories of those single moments then.
Happy Birthday, little one.