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toosutoWell you've been with us a year now and there are no signs that you'll be cancelled. I don't think I quite realized how emotional I'd get today. It's just a birthday I thought. I've had tons of them. But this is your first. And I get to share it with you. I can't hardly stand it.
A year ago this very second we were tired and somewhat frustrated. We were starting day five in the hospital and I know your mother was beginning to believe that not only were you never going to come out but that she would never be allowed to leave the hospital. But that evening the surgeon came and made the decision that you were coming. I cannot begin to describe the feeling looking over the partition as your head emerged (get used to me saying things like that, mostly it's a swelling elation that builds up so quick in your chest your eyes water—I guess I can begin to describe it, but it's hard to finish when the keyboard gets all blurry).
Eventually the hospital did let us go (and after seeing the bill thank god for being double insured, being poor is good for something—even though I would have paid 100 times as much or more). We had our very own little girl. Sure you couldn't feed the cats or do the dishes but we knew that eventually you'd make our lives easier, like a fancy automatic clothes washer or indentured servant. You charmed every one you met, visitors to the house, Tracy our waitress at Dolly's (who met you when you just seven days old: we had to get out of the house). You'd started getting pretty frustrated pretty quick because you couldn't exert much control over the world around and worked hard at learning to crawl.
Like a good Irish girl we couldn't shove oatmeal down you fast enough. You love potatoes and corned beef already. Your Momma still won't let me let you taste Guinness until you are ten. We cannot keep up when you are eating blueberries but for some reason you never liked carrots and we have to intersperse them with other better liked foods to get you to eat them. If you had a choice on your mode of eating you'd do it in bed, crawling back and forth between your mother and I to get bites of whatever you want off our plates from room service.
I love it when you dance: in your high chair, or standing in the middle of the living room. I love taking you to see new things. I like that you'll hand me a book and ask "please?" I loved watching you ride the train. I'd say that I can't imagine what the next year will be like but while details are sketchy I am pretty sure that chunks of it will be blurry because of how happy you make me.
Love,
your Da
A year ago this very second we were tired and somewhat frustrated. We were starting day five in the hospital and I know your mother was beginning to believe that not only were you never going to come out but that she would never be allowed to leave the hospital. But that evening the surgeon came and made the decision that you were coming. I cannot begin to describe the feeling looking over the partition as your head emerged (get used to me saying things like that, mostly it's a swelling elation that builds up so quick in your chest your eyes water—I guess I can begin to describe it, but it's hard to finish when the keyboard gets all blurry).
Eventually the hospital did let us go (and after seeing the bill thank god for being double insured, being poor is good for something—even though I would have paid 100 times as much or more). We had our very own little girl. Sure you couldn't feed the cats or do the dishes but we knew that eventually you'd make our lives easier, like a fancy automatic clothes washer or indentured servant. You charmed every one you met, visitors to the house, Tracy our waitress at Dolly's (who met you when you just seven days old: we had to get out of the house). You'd started getting pretty frustrated pretty quick because you couldn't exert much control over the world around and worked hard at learning to crawl.
Like a good Irish girl we couldn't shove oatmeal down you fast enough. You love potatoes and corned beef already. Your Momma still won't let me let you taste Guinness until you are ten. We cannot keep up when you are eating blueberries but for some reason you never liked carrots and we have to intersperse them with other better liked foods to get you to eat them. If you had a choice on your mode of eating you'd do it in bed, crawling back and forth between your mother and I to get bites of whatever you want off our plates from room service.
I love it when you dance: in your high chair, or standing in the middle of the living room. I love taking you to see new things. I like that you'll hand me a book and ask "please?" I loved watching you ride the train. I'd say that I can't imagine what the next year will be like but while details are sketchy I am pretty sure that chunks of it will be blurry because of how happy you make me.
Love,
your Da
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Date: 5 Sep 2005 17:07 (UTC)