Dear Evan –

Your mommy and I had hoped — oh, how we’d hoped — to spare you the rivers of snot and various other indignities visited on us this time of year. We’d hoped you would live a life free of the daily need for Zyrtec or Benadryl. A life where you can breathe deeply and sleep soundly with nary a clogged nostril.

This past week, though, I pulled from your little button nose the biggest booger I’ve ever seen. Bigger than my own. So large I can’t imagine where it must have come from. Plus, you’ve been sneezing a bit, though not having any other trouble breathing. We think you’ve inherited our allergies to… well, anything green.

(In retrospect, it’s amazing you were conceived in March, considering our normal phlegm-heavy states that time of year.)

On the upside, you’re learning to pet your fur-brothers. Lil’ Bit will cuddle up close to you, gently, and you reach out one tiny fist, then realize there’s something soft underneath, open your hand and either close it on Bit’s fur or stroke him. He’s very patient, and without complaint accepts you even grabbing his snout, ears, whatever. La and I watch with glee, holding our breaths so as not to distract either of you. Right now, Gus and Bit are fascinating to you. No matter what they’re doing, you’ll turn at goggle at them with your huge blue eyes, lips slightly parted, entirely focused.

In other news, you’re actually beginning to giggle and laugh, something that prompts La and I to make all manner of funny faces at you. Sometimes sticking out a tongue works, and sometimes it takes more. Right now, the only thing that reliably gets a huge grin is crooning, “Yooooooouuuuu are so cuuuuuuuuute.” We may have created a monster.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

It’s been two weeks since I wrote to you, and that pains me. My goal has been to write a letter each week, not to mention quite a bit of other content in this space, and I’ve (if temporarily) failed at both. I want to say there’s a good reason, some great upheaval that kept me from the keyboard for so long. There was not. Instead, as always happens, a multitude of minor problems bumped me along, had me thinking about what next to tell you but too tired to do it.

That happens, and seems to happen to me on a regular basis, and I hope you’ll be better at dealing with those situations. I approach problems like to-do lists and often don’t rest until they’re done. I step away from the rest of life, from writing to you or catching up on sleep or planning my next novel or… You get the idea. I was brought up by my parents to push aside leisure time when there’s work to be done. And there’s always work to be done.

I got less time with you over these past two weeks, because you made your first trip to Houston to spend time with your mommy’s family. I’ll be schmoopy here and tell you that while your fur-brothers are good and constant companions, spending five days away from you and your mommy was not the bachelor-fest I hoped for. I managed to spend a few hours playing video games, and then got bored and tackled what I could on the to-do list. The house was too empty, and too quiet, and it put me in a bad mood until you both returned.

I’m happy to say your night-time crying fits ended almost as quickly as they arrived. You sometimes still fight sleep, but that’s to be expected. There’s so much going on! You are also developing a keen interest in the television, so your mommy and I take care to make sure something educational is on during the times you look in that direction.

You’re still behind on tummy time, which worries me a little, but are holding your head up and proud otherwise. Heck, you hate being carried cradle-style any more, preferring to be held vertical so you can better look around. Your hand-eye coordination is better every day, though your mommy isn’t as thrilled that you can now grab and hold tight to her hair. She’s talking about cutting it, but it’s so beautiful, long and strawberry blonde, that I hope she doesn’t. Maybe she’ll do so and have grown it back by the time you read this.

And that’s it, a letter so mild I feel like it’s a dispatch from Lake Wobegon. (Look it up.) Bumps in the road: No great trials or tribulations in our lives, but enough disruption to throw off my own schedule. Someday, we’ll look back and not even laugh, because what’s throwing me off won’t have been worth remembering.

I’ll write more often,

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

I wonder, while I write these letters, what our lives will be like as you’re reading them. La and I have so many plans, so many options, that it’s dizzying to try and guess which will become reality. Right now, our plans change quickly because our lives are moving so fast. Days pass in a blur; weeks blend; months fly.

If you’ve guessed that’s partly an excuse as to why I haven’t written to you as regularly as I’d like… well, you’re partly right. I haven’t done any writing as much as I’d like, because I’m caught on some wildly spinning merry-go-’round of getting up, feeding you, getting to work, coming home, sitting with you for a bit, eating dinner, doing some actual head-of-the-household crap like paying bills, and then getting to bed early enough that I don’t feel like a zombie the next day.

Even weekends are full, and as La pointed out, we don’t get to sit around any more.

So. Of all possible outcomes, this is what I hope: I hope I sell some books, and we renovate the ranch on your Mimi and PaPa’s land, and we live a life where I can write and La can open an animal-therapy counseling service and you can learn to enjoy the days instead of seeing each off as quickly as they arrive.

Enough talk about that. Let’s talk about you.

This week, you’ve come as close as ever to laughing. You’ve been smiling for a few weeks now, not just copying our smiles but getting my attention and grinning wide with a mischievous cooing noise. It’s adorable, and you get even smilier when La or I tell you how cute you are. You don’t laugh yet, but sometimes you make a “huh-huh” sound that I think is your imitation of our laughter. It won’t be long before you get it right; you’re already holding conversations with us, even if your end is mostly babble. (To be frank, so is what we tell you.)

Unfortunately, you had your first really bad night this week. Monday evening, you weren’t just crying, you were screaming. We still don’t know why, just that after almost an hour, you had a huge spit-up, calmed a bit, then began crying again. Nothing we did during that first time helped, not holding you or burping you or giving you infant Tylenol. The second time, you must’ve just been tired and maybe afraid, because I held you and walked and shushed and you fell fast asleep.

I know that won’t be the last time something bothers you that we can’t immediately fix, but I hope it’s the last time you’re in so much distress. The sight of real tears in the corners of your eyes hurts my heart.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

I’ve told myself I’ll at least write you a letter each week, but I feel like the past couple have been flat. Too often, I think, I snap off a quick letter without connecting it to a larger narrative, or with items hinting at a bigger message but not fully connecting.

Well, buck up, because this week’s letter will be even more scattered.

Part of that is because you are — your mommy and I think — going through a growth spurt. You’re eating more. The 120-ml bottles just don’t do the trick, at least not for a full three-hour rest. More frustrating is that, as your mommy points out, boobs don’t come with a Full-to-Empty gauge. She can usually tell when you’ve been eating and when you’ve just been using her as a pacifier. Usually. Sometimes, we think you’re full, and an hour later you’re restless and making what we’ve learned is the “feed me” face: tongue flickering in and out like a cute snake.

That is, as you can probably imagine when eventually reading this, less than restful in the wee hours of the morning.

On the upside, you learned to smile — for real social smiles — a couple of weeks ago, and are amazingly close to that first laugh. I almost thought I got one yesterday when you smiled and made a “ha-ha” noise, but it was too close to your normal “talking” to tell. When you smile, your eyes crinkle, and your mouth opens and stretches wide, and sometimes you blush and turn your head. It’s ridiculously cute, which leads to a bout of tickling and telling you how cute you are. Heaven help your mommy and me when you’re grown a little and can use that against us.

You got to show off the smile this week to your mommy’s parents, and her sister’s family. Your cousin Asher, in fact, is the closest template we have to how you might turn out — blue-eyed, blond, talkative, social, very intelligent. Again, Heaven help us. Asher is always in motion, and always asking about everything, and if you pause for a second he’s moved on to something else. I make him sound ADD, but he’s not; he’s just into everything. I have a feeling you’ll be the same, the way you goggle over my shoulder or your mommy’s at anything else going on in the area, mouth open and eyes wide with concentration.

One more disjointed thought: I wondered, during my commute to work today, how early we’d be able to influence your… well, not just your personality, but I suppose that’s a good start. I want you to stay happy. I want you to laugh and blush and turn your head. I’m… well, most days I feel older than I am, and grumpy, and disillusioned, and I don’t want you to feel that. I want to strike that balance of teaching you to work hard for yourself while handing to you as much opportunity as I can. More than I had. I need to start doing that now, but haven’t had a chance. It’s frustrating.

Enough of that. The weather has turned beautiful, finally bringing spring to Texas, so here’s to a weekend of smiles from you.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

I’ve been thinking about work a lot lately. This week has been hectic for me, and I worry I’ve spent too little time with you. I get my Monday and Wednesday nights, of course, while your mommy teaches, but beyond that my time home is spent trying to eat dinner, pay bills, help out as much as I can with chores and somehow relax before my eyelids start to droop.

I hope you don’t remember that. I hope that by the time you do develop long-term memories, I’ve found a better balance between home and work life.

I really hope you think about work, like I have been. That’s odd to write, picturing you as a fat, burbling, smiling infant pondering careers. (Some of how we raise you will shape that, of course, and your mommy and I have been very careful in that regard.) What I mean to write is, when you’re a little older, when you start thinking about what your life will be after college, include in that thinking this question: What do I want life to be like for me?

Some days — and oh, how I hate to write this — some days I question my choices. I chose a career I would love — writing — and pursued it. I spent an exorbitant sum at a private university and came out making $17,000 annually. I gave up niceties like job security and the ability to afford luxury items in return for the sort of exciting career that makes for great cocktail-party stories. Was it enough? I think about how to provide for your future, and while I make a nice living at the moment — enough that your mommy really doesn’t have to work — I wish your college fund, your savings, money set aside for other expenses were all done already.

People will tell you to do what you love, and having followed that advice, I can’t fault it too heavily. But still, my parents were unable to help me at times, have said they wished they could’ve done more, and I worry that I may wind up in the same boat. There should be a cushion already in place for you, just in case (and in this economy, “just in case” is a daily worry). It’s frustrating.

So what do I tell you? It’ll be so much easier to teach you to shave or kick a soccer ball or those other father-son things. I want you to be happy. I want you to do what you love. But I want you to think, too: Would I love life more by having experiences instead of possessions, and the financial stress that goes with that? Or could I grind through a boring job for a decade or two and then retire early, live the rest of my life comfortably?

I did the former. Today, I wish I’d done the latter, just so you could have an easier time making the choice down the road.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

I want to try and explain why I get misty during the opening minutes of “Star Wars.” And during the end, and at times in the middle.

“Star Wars” tells the story of a poor boy in a hot climate who gets to go on grand adventures and finds out he’s not just something more but something noble: a Jedi knight, an avatar of goodness. I’ve never gotten to the last bit, but when I was a poor boy in a hot climate, it felt like I could. The movie resonated with me, back when it first came out. Sure, we kids turned sticks into lightsabers and eventually saved up enough to toy around with the movie’s action figures, but to me it was something more. A promise, I think. An unfulfilled promise, it turns out, and maybe that’s why I get misty.

I’m writing all of this because this past Saturday you and I had Daddy-Evan day, our first attempt to watch the three good “Star Wars” movies back-to-back-t0-back. I brought out a foot-tall talking Darth Vader doll, dug it out from a bin in the garage, which you obligingly clutched just long enough for me to take a picture.

After that, you slept while I relived a movie I’ve watched… well, so many times I stopped counting. I laughed; I raised my eyebrows at the unnecessary additional CGI (the “special editions” are all I own on DVD); I made sure you knew Greedo shot first; I cheered Han’s return during the Death Star run. When Luke turned off his targeting computer at the end and John Williams’ score moved into a beautifully dreamy serenity, my chest tightened and my eyes stung. As always.

I do remember the first time I saw “The Empire Strikes Back.” Your grandfather took me and your Uncle Benjie for my birthday, the summer of 1980. He surprised me on the way with a toy playset based on Dagobah, the planet where Yoda hides. We still didn’t have much money, so that was a huge thrill for me.

You paid a little more attention to “Empire,” which is funny because emotionally I don’t connect with it like I do the first film. Oh, I like it an awful lot, and consider it to be superior in a lot of ways, but on an intellectual level. I don’t get misty. I don’t get choked up.

I also  remember the first time I saw the third movie, “Return of the Jedi.” That one came out in 1983, but I was late to see it. I wish I knew why. My family didn’t go out to movies a lot — didn’t go out a lot, period — but your grandfather and grandmother knew how important “Star Wars” was to us. I did eventually see it, and in the theater, but don’t remember it having much impact. I was eager to watch it again, to see how, with you curled peacefully unconscious into the crook of my left arm, the movie hit me.  We didn’t have time that day, though.

I wonder what will be your touchstone, what books or movies or television or — hell — holographic virtutainment will resonate with you from these early years until decades later. Will you write letters (or — hell — record holographic virtucommunications) to your own son about “Star Wars”? Will a piece of my childhood become a part of who you are? I hope so. I hope that teariness I feel, that longing for a goodness in the soul that supposedly personified the Jedi, will get you a little weepy when you’re cradling your own child in your arms.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

One of the reasons I’m writing these letters is because memory fades so quickly. I remember the signposts, the major events that studded the story of my courting Laura, but right now, as I stare at this blank page, the order confuses me. I turn those signposts into, to abruptly switch metaphors, puzzle pieces: If I said that to her then, I must have said this other thing later, or before. You understand. Your mommy’s already corrected my memories of your early scares (it was just eight days, apparently, that you were at the first hospital, when to me it feels like weeks) so I hope she’ll be able to fill in the blurred spots in this story.

I will admit to you that I overthink almost everything. The morning after the first kiss I shared with your mother, I wondered what had happened. After all, I lived in Chicago, and she lived in Texas, and that’s a huge distance to overcome. Distance was on my mind that morning; we — the new bride and groom, family, friends — went to breakfast, and Laura showed up late. I didn’t realize then how much she values sleeping in, what an effort it must have been to even get to the restaurant. She was half-asleep, but I took it as standoffishness. No, that’s not really a word. Pretend it is.

I kept my distance, then, but later that day I did manage to exchange phone numbers with her, and then it was back to Dallas, and to the airport, and arriving in Chicago.

I didn’t forget Laura. I mentioned her in letters I sent to your Auntie Em while she (your aunt, not your mother) was going through Air Force officers’ training. I called Laura once, from a street fair, trying to meet up with your Aunt Rachel, then her roommate. What I think is most important is what happened during one of my regular trips to Los Angeles for work. A co-worker there was your mother’s twin. The resemblance was uncanny, really. I stared at the poor woman, and finally explained that she resembled my sister’s best friend. Huh, resembled. Was a clone of. I texted that to your mother, from a pretentious bar at the site of an abandoned power station, that I’d met her clone in L.A. She wrote back that there was nothing like the real thing, and that broke the ice.

Fast-forward a few months, when your Auntie Em successfully lobbied for me to fly down to float the Guadalupe River with her, your Uncle Chris, their friend Lizzie and… your mother, of course. I admit it, I was nervous. I shouldn’t have been. The weekend went great; I was charming, apparently, and your mother and I shared another kiss or three. She kept close to me on the river, holding onto my foot for some of the time, testing to see whether I’m as ticklish as my sister. (I am.) She drove me back to Austin the night before my flight back. We talked during the entire drive, stopped at one of her favorite restaurants, had dinner and margaritas. It all felt right.

She had to leave early the next day to finish her drive to Denton, so I spent the time waiting for the SuperShuttle thinking about how to get back to Texas. From that night, I knew I was done in Chicago. I was coming home.

We talked daily after that, sometimes for hours, sometimes for seconds. Sometimes only by exchanging voicemails. It didn’t matter. The universe was already setting things in motion, or had before, but I was too oblivious, too smitten to notice. By the end of that year, I’d been handed a reason to move back to Texas, and I took it. But that’s another story.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

I haven’t really finished telling you how I met your mother — or rather, I told you how we met, but not how I courted her — but I want to set aside that happy story and instead tell you about two times you gave us a scare.

Right now, you’re almost a week away from being four months old, and while your premature arrival puts you really at two months old (think that’s weird reckoning, try being born Feb. 29), you’re strong and healthy and getting fat rolls on your ankles and legs. Let’s not talk about the multiple chins. Your mother coos over them, so thrilled at your progress.

We both are. Don’t take this the wrong way, but when you were born, you looked like an alien, all chin and stretched neck and spindly limbs. You were, I have to say, remarkably developed, especially in lung capacity. The doctors warned us you’d need a ventilator; you came out crying and never needed a machine to breathe for you.

I’m dancing around the topic of this letter, aren’t I? It’s easier to think of the good, even if the bad has passed. So: The first scare, the first real scare, not some creeping worry about your health, came a little more than a week after your birth. You were in the NICU, and Laura was still recovering in a room nearby. Maybe it was two weeks. I don’t remember, exactly, and that’s the great thing about stress. It’s unbearable when you’re in it, but when you’re not? Anyway. I do remember rushing down multiple halls, so we were outside the actual Delivery suite.

The phone rang, and it was Miss Charlene, and now even her name is fading from my memory just three months and change later. She was our favorite of your nurses at Denton Presby, very smart, very calm, very willing to explain everything and anything. That’s why my heart fell when she said “How quickly can you get here?”

I hung up and paused. You were dying. I was sure the nurse wanted me to come see you one last time. Laura was still drugged up; no time to wrestle her into a wheelchair (she still couldn’t walk well, thanks to the emergency surgery). It’d have to be just me, so I rushed down the halls, through the sets of locked doors. I scrubbed as fast as I could, then burst into the NICU. I must’ve looked awful, because all of the nurses gave me quizzical looks.

“I wanted to know whether you wanted to hold him,” Miss Charlene said, and so I did, relieved.

The second scare was an actual emergency, so I’m not inclined to linger on the details. You were sick. Laura had found hard swollen lumps on your cheeks, and they were so painful you couldn’t sleep. The nurses kept a close eye out, but your doctor was stumped. He took blood. (You were a pincushion in those days.) He tried to get samples. he gave courses of antibiotics, hoping to get lucky and kill it. Nothing worked.

I remember one particular visit of mine, when I sat next to your incubator crib, not even able to reach a hand in and touch you. (We did that often, and you’d hold one of our fingers, the very tip, in your tiny paw while we talked.) You had been through so much. “You’ll be strong like Daddy,” I said, over and over, trying to will my own very effective immune system into your teensy frame. “You’ll get better quick.” My lip trembled. Miss Charlene tried to come talk to me, and it was all I could do to answer some basic questions without bawling. I made it out of public, at least, before I did that, before I broke down. I was just so scared.

It wasn’t all bad. You were stable — the infection was stalled, at least, by the attention — but your doctor decided you’d do better at a hospital specializing in children. It was an easy decision to make. Your mommy rode with you in the ambulance there.

I may be misremembering events again, because you were taken almost immediately to surgery upon arrival at Cook Children’s in Fort Worth. So, I’m not sure when they discovered you had a drug-resistant strain of MRSA, a staph infection. It must have been quickly, because I don’t remember having time to be even as scared as at Miss Charlene’s call. Bam-bam-bam: You were through surgery, where the fluid was drained, the wound cleaned, antibiotics administered. And that was that. You recovered, though you stayed at Cook for weeks getting bigger and stronger.

It’s humid and gray outside my office window right now, and I’m thinking about the work to be done today but really wishing I were home. You sleep so well when I hold you, fat and warm and comfortable, breath heavy with the milk smell. There may be more scares ahead, but right now, all is well.

Love,

Daddy

A few years ago, my mother gave me for Christmas a written account of the day of my birth. It was unexpected and enlightening, though despite repeated requests she hasn’t followed it with other memories. Inspired, I’ve been writing letters to my own newborn son Evan. I’ll share some of them here. This is the first.

Dear Evan:

Welcome to life! We’ve tried not to mess it up too badly, though I had hoped for a couple more months before introducing you to the world.

You were supposed to be a Christmas baby, and as such your mother (my La) and I joked about being shafted on the number of presents, on small parties because your friends would all be visiting family. I suppose you decided that wasn’t good enough and decided to make an appearance early.

More likely, you’re following in the footsteps of your Uncle Doug. I’ll tell you more stories when you’re older, but your middle name is in honor of dad’s old friend Doug, who passed away almost a month before your birth. Doug always loved Halloween — he loved dressing up, he loved laughing, he loved being out with friends — and we suspect that in some outer-life, he talked you up on the concepts, convinced you to show up in time for the fun.

Because, yes, you were exactly two months early.

On the morning of Oct. 27, 2010, your mom called me. Her voice was unsteady, and she called in the morning, which was a surprise. She taught mornings, and then would go home to nap before her afternoon classes, so I wasn’t accustomed to hearing from her until after 2 or 3.

La said the word “bleeding” and I immediately began packing up the duffel bag of gym gear I bring to work. After e-mailing my boss and co-worker, I was out the door. By the time I got to Denton, your mom was already at the hospital. She was scared, I could tell, but in a very strong way. She joked and laughed. I paced. They said “bedrest” and I relaxed, decided I could get away while the nurses ran blood tests. I hadn’t eaten, after all, nor had your furry brothers Gus and Lil’ Bit.

By the time I got back to the hospital, about half an hour later, your mom was in tears. There was a problem, the doctor said. Placental abruption, she said. We have to act fast, she said. I got scared. We didn’t know what that meant for you and, selfishly, I didn’t know what that meant for La.

Everything did move quickly after that. Your mom was wheeled away, and I was told to put on what looked like a biohazard suit: hairnet, mouth-mask, body suit, shoe covers. I did. And I paced. And I paced. And I paced.

Eventually, I was led to the operating room. La was there, with a curtain bisecting her chest. I sat next to her head, stroked her forehead and one exposed arm, babbled inanely to the anesthetist about my great-grandmother, who shared his profession. I listened to doctorspeak and tried to relate it to “ER” and other television shows. That’s all I knew. I tried to breathe, but the mouth-mask was hot and itchy.

And then, a cry. Not a wail, but a cranky “you just woke me” cry. “Dad,” someone said, “come see him.” I did. You were a perfect little man, waving your arms and legs and other parts, peeing on the nurses, making known your displeasure at having been removed from a safe, warm home. It was 1:32 p.m.

I took pictures, went back to your mom, showed her, went back to you, tried to stay out of the way of everyone. Soon, you were swaddled and rushed away to the NICU. I heard counting and turned; the doctors were counting towels and equipment, making sure nothing stayed inside La. It amused me. I was scared and amused and confused and utterly unprepared.

Not long after, the doctors finished their work and I followed your mom back to her room. She was sleepy, and surprised like me, and apprehensive, but mostly she was happy. She told me she loved me, many times, and slept. I, meanwhile, stepped outside the door to make what would be a barrage of phone calls spreading the great news. Eventually, I went home and got clothing and a book (Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens, which is entirely appropriate) and sat and read in the darkened room until we could visit the NICU.

That was your birth. Later, we would see you, and then watch you grow, and then have a scare, and then have another with your mom, and then hold you for the first time. Those are letters to come.

Love,

Andy