Dear Rory,
I’m sorry it took me so long to write. Since your arrival six months ago, life has been predictably busy. I started this website to record moments and memories of being a father when your big sister entered our world two-and-a-half years ago, and since then every piece has been about her. But I want you to know that is not a reflection of my love for you.
In fact, it’s the opposite: Mama and I have been working hard to make sure you and Mayla have everything you need, and writing necessarily takes a back seat to those more important obligations. Some days, like yesterday when I had to work late, that means I leave before you wake up and get home after you’re asleep, and Grandma and Mama take care of you. I want you to know that if I could be home with you, I would, that my absence does not indicate a lack of love but rather an abundance of it. Last night you woke up upset a little after midnight; rubbing your tummy as you fell back asleep was more important than anything I did that day.
I used to think, before you were here, that I had a finite capacity of love, doled out in parcels here and there to who and what I valued most—as if love were like time or energy. I worried that when you were born that I wouldn’t feel the same way about you as I do Mayla. I’ve never been happier to be wrong: You taught me that having a second child does not divide a parent’s love; it multiplies it. The past six months, watching you and Mayla grow, have been the richest of my life.
I was feeling down today, overwhelmed by responsibilities. So I watched a video of you on my phone: We were at the fair, waiting as Mama and Mayla ordered mac and cheese. I began tickling your belly and you squealed with glee, that thousand-watt smile staring up at me.
I felt better after that.
Most people, when they meet you, have that same reaction. “She’s just so happy!” they’ll tell us, and we will have no retort. Your happiness is among the purest I’ve witnessed, right up there with Ama’s as she runs around our backyard. You rarely cry, and if you do you are easily soothed. When we get you up in the morning, or from a nap later in the day, your smile is impossibly true, and your laugh, as Mama puts it, is addicting. You are thrilled that you get to experience another day in your new world. I hope you never lose that.
You never stop moving. It started when you were in Mama’s belly, and it’s continued until now. Legs, arms, feet, hands—constantly in motion, forever searching and probing your physical limits. (I joke to anyone who will listen that you are going to be a Division I athlete, and I’m only like 40 percent kidding.) When we lay you on the floor, we are no longer surprised to find you several feet away just seconds later, reaching for the dog bed or putting a ball in your mouth. I hope you never lose that curiosity either.
My favorite time of the week comes on Sunday afternoons, when I get to hold you for your afternoon nap. It’s just me, you, the sound machine, and my book. You lay on my chest, eyes closed and breathing softly, your round cheeks pressed against my shoulder, and there is nowhere I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing, than sitting there with you in the quiet dark.
I love you, Rory. You are the light of my world. I’m sorry it took me so long to write to tell you.
Love,
Dada
Essays of Dad 