I peek in on her while she sleeps, just to watch her breathe. She is beautiful every time. Her chest always rises and falls. Invariably, she’ll make some innocently sweet noise as though she knows I’m watching, and am in awe of every noise she makes. I am in awe of her. She is my redemption, and I must protect her from the entire world. Not everyone gets a second chance. Invariably, I will cross the room, stepping carefully and softly so I don’t molest her peace. Invariably, I will stand directly over her, admiring her; I will suppress an urge to cry because I love her so damned much. And invariably, I will lean down to plant the softest of kisses on her softest of cheeks.

I watch.

I swell with immeasurable pride.

I question. I question whether or not I can pull this off without fucking it up.

No, I insist, fucking it up is not even an option. Continue Reading

My daughter was sweet, very quiet in her play.  My son can be heard all over the house no matter what room he is in.  She would have thirty dolls dressed in the outfit of the day, each one thoughtfully placed in her tea time posture.  The only sound would be the soft music of her voice and the quiet tea-cup-tinkle of china.  You really wouldn’t know where she was if you weren’t in the room with her, sometimes not even then.  He has thirty cars, trucks and bulldozers piling up in a crash on Interstate By-The-Door-Near-The-Couch.  My daughter gave very sweet hugs and gentle kisses to the cheek.  She would come over sometimes and softly nestle beside me on the couch, sigh contentedly, and quietly, almost weightlessly, just be while I watched a ballgame or read a book.  My son, who runs everywhere, comes hurtling around the dining room table, dislodges a  chair, hops over the dog, scatters the cat straight up the drapes, and, still five feet away, takes a Tarzan-like leap onto my head which he claims with all four limbs.  While my glasses are spinning through the sun room, he squeezes my neck so hard that my adam’s apple turns to applesauce.  Instead of her sweet “Mmmm, I love you, Daddy,” I get his  “Rrrr, I love you, Daddy” while he rocks us both so hard that we nearly topple out of the chair on our heads.  Instead of a sweet, precious kiss on the cheek, he barks twice, bites me playfully on the nose, leaps to the floor, rescatters the now neurotic animals, and goes careening back through the house. To my daughter, riding a big wheel was just part of an extravagant event.  She would get all dressed up, inventory her purse and gracefully, elegantly proceed to the tea party or ballroom without haste.  To my son, riding the big wheel is the event.  It’s the first place car in a hotly contested race to the back porch where the opponents include every table, chair, door, wall, pet or person.  My heart sticks in my throat as he goes flying by the glass doors between the dining room and kitchen.  He makes it to the back porch okay, but I discover that it was just the first lap of many.  I notice that I’m not breathing as I watch. Continue Reading