My Son

It Still Feels Weird to Say That

My son's head rises and falls with each quick breath.

He is small, the size of a football, although not as round. A doll in every way possible.

At seven a.m., while the birds sing outside, I type on the keyboard while my boy makes chirping noises, his head resting against my chest. My son, chirping.

My son.

It still feels weird to say, those words come out my mouth. Much in the same way it felt odd to say "my wife" for months after the wedding; and yet, I looked for every excuse to say those words, to prove to the world that this person belonged to me. To me, mine.

The same is true now. It's exciting to have a new title, another role to play in this drama—and at the same time, scary.

My son smacks his lips in a tiny kiss while he is awake. I'm concerned about that, the kissing of everything, although I shouldn't have to be worried for years, I hope. And maybe not at all.

As far as he is concerned, there are two times worth remembering to this baby boy. There is Sleep Time, and there is Eat Time. If he is not sleeping, he is smacking those lips, waiting for food. 

There is, however, a third time that sneaks into each day. That is Discover Time. My son is not yet a newborn. He was born four weeks premature, without complication. For that, I'm grateful. He came into life fighting, and I see it in his eyes when he opens them a few minutes each day. They are wide and blue, an ocean of fierce innocence, and he uses them to swallow the whole world.

He can't see well, or so the doctors say (about any baby at this stage). But I don't believe it. Sure, he may not be able to focus, the corneas and retinas may still be developing, but my son sees. I can see it in those eyes.

Every day is a new day for this baby boy. My baby boy. His face muscles twitch and limbs shake, still getting used to this body and the great big universe. And I am still getting used to him, this tiny life that brought such monumental change.