Dear Evan:
This morning, I saw you crying, and I saw you laughing, and I saw you asleep, all before I left for work. Our hopes of you sleeping through the night have been almost entirely dashed. The closest you came was Sunday night, when you gave us a solid seven hours of uninterrupted slumber. Otherwise, you wake at midnight, and near 3, and again right around 5 or 6. I don’t want to say we could set a watch by your waking, but it’s close.
Your Mimi Jean is in town this week, and now that the weather’s consistently below 100 degrees during the day, you and she sit outside under our tree. You have never stopped loving being outside; I wonder whether that’s you, whether it’s the 40 days you spent seeing almost nothing but the inside of a NICU bubble, whether it’s just a baby thing. No matter your mood, as soon as we step outdoors you get quiet and pay close attention to the wind and the birds and the children on bikes pedaling past.
You won’t be sneaking up on anyone indoors. Your crawl is accompanied by a smack-smack-smack as you slap the hardwoods with each little hand, squirming forward at an astonishing rate of speed. Only weeks ago, we could set you down and manage to do something — change the laundry, maybe — before you got too far. Nowadays, you’re at the laundry-room door almost as quickly as the dogs.
I love that little smacking noise, and the huge grin on your face when you realize you’ve been caught motoring around the house. You’re already standing almost entirely on your own, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you walked before the end of the year. I thought about that this morning, as I lay in the dark of our bedroom, with you sleeping between me and your mother. I thought about what a huge change that will be in a year — less! it’s still a month until your birthday! — of huge changes. It made me smile, but it made me a little afraid as well.
Love,
Daddy
