“Does he have room to breathe?” Your mom asks me, every time she sees you face-planted against my chest for your afternoon naps. I can’t blame her. Your nostrils are too tiny to see from afar. And how you burrow into things like they have no end, and climb like there is no edge, and sample objects like the universe is your buffet. To raise you is to discover that the world around me is a kind of a minefield. The things I used to shrug off are now suddenly biohazards. The neighbor who smokes on her balcony. The alley full of trash. The temperment I swore I’d master before you were born. All of it makes me wonder, can I be a good parent without the fear?
You’re barely a year old, barely able to move about the world, and I’m already mourning all the moments of your life I’ll miss. Sometimes at the playground, I watch the younger dads with their kids, two sets of wide, curious eyes, and I can’t help but be filled with jealousy. My dad had me when he was just 26. According to that, there’s an entire generation between you and I. I don’t know if I’ll ever not wonder what it would’ve been like to have an extra decade with you. It’s only been 10 months and I’m overwhelmed by all the nostalgia of just moments ago. This sad-cold is not at all helped by this particularly gray May. Can I be a good parent without this melancholy?
Finally, I’m writing again with some semblance of consistency (as in I’ve managed to do it twice this week). I get my sessions in during your mid-morning nap, which begins around 10:30 and ends somewhere between 10:45 and noon (what it will be each day is anyone’s guess). Right now, it’s already 11:54 but you look so peaceful on my shoulder I can’t bring myself to let you stir. Maybe you’re dreaming of something, maybe your mind is dormant. Either way, you won’t remember when you awaken, and surely not when you grow up. This might be the biggest inspiration for me to finally find my words again. These moments are too beautiful for the both of us to forget.