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