It’s late. The house is dark. My two loves are sleeping in the next room. When they slumber, it is astounding how much they look alike. Father and son.
I lie awake in bed, looking at them, one on each side of me.
The Rebel is curled up with one too many pillows, bound to result in a sore neck tomorrow morning. If I attempt to wake him though, and encourage something a bit more ergonomic, he mutters sleepily and shifts to an even more uncomfortable position. So be it. It brings a grin to my face.
Our Angel, so peaceful, is dreaming with his arms sprawled out over his head. He’s nearly outgrowing the cosleeper we have rigged to the side of our bed. I can’t help but lay my hand gently on his chest. It rises, up and down, up and down. As he draws a baby breath, in and out, in and out. I rest another blanket on his plump frame. It is chilly tonight. He is so little. So beautiful. So perfect.
I look at them, my two loves, one on each side of me. And my heart swells in my chest. About to burst.
The two of them complete me. I feel whole. So much love, happiness, fulfillment. Hope. And unrest.
Like so many nights recently, I can’t sleep. It’s not too late yet, but there is a familiar tumult in my head. So I creep out of bed, tip-toeing my way on the creaky hardwood floor to a room where I can be alone.
I wonder if the Monster ever felt such a surge of love when looking at me. A few months ago, I found a photo of my father holding me when I was around my Angel’s age. It has haunted me since. In this photo, I am too little to be quite aware of my surroundings. My father is smiling happily. Is he happy? Is he proud? Did someone crack a joke in the room? Does he feel silly holding a baby? Does he feel manly and powerful, showing proof that he has reproduced?
I wonder if the Monster ever was able to feel the same joy and awe I do when looking at my Angel. That kind of burning, unconditional, all-encompassing love that makes any given moment brighter, more beautiful, more meaningful. That inability to withhold a smile. That explosion of warmth in the chest. That unspoken but inherent promise to do all I can to protect and nurture.
I think not.
What a shame.
I feel sorry for the Monster sometimes. Often. How sad to miss out on such a vital part of life. Love. It brings tears to my eyes.
Tears of sadness for him. Brushing off something so amazing. Coldly. Without a clue.
Tears of pain for me. For having to let go of my hope. My hope for a father’s love. A father who is incapable of loving.
Tears of joy for my baby. And a prayer. May I be for him everything that my father was not.
