Year One Down...

Dear Simone,

One year ago today, I tied my stomach into several knots waiting for the doctors to give your mom the ok for a C-section. I was afraid; your Mom was so pale, so tired. And I could do nothing but watch and fume and grind my teeth.

One year ago today, I watched with wide eyes while they held your new body, slick with life, over the surgery curtain for me to see. You were blue, your eyes closed. You needed a kick start.

One year ago today, I stood by the doctors who told me to speak to you as they measured and prodded, checked hip joints and vertebrae. I spoke: Hey Simone, you are so lovely. So nice to meet you. And you looked up with such a solemn face, serious, intelligent. You looked at me like we’d always known each other.

Today,  I see hints of that gaze every time I sit across from your high chair, sharing pieces of mango or pear, tiny halves of blueberries or chunks of cheddar cheese. Your feet rest on my knees, nudge me with little kicks when I try to sneak peas or corn into the mix. And your face, always intent, with winks of mischief yet to come. You speak with the urgency of innocence, the need to tell me how the world should be, unfettered by the weight of age. And I hear you. And I love you. And we wait for Mom to come home.

Papa.