There is nothing so miraculous as holding a child in your arms. The vast array of emotions that such a simple act stirs within you are so far beyond anything you've ever experienced that everything else just fades away.
Holding William - my son - I am awestruck by the implications of who he is and what he's going to require of me. Now, I'm not referring to the virtually incomprehensible difficulties inherent to his parent's rather unique lifestyle. I don't need to. The so-called normal requirements of parenthood alone are enough to make your heart stop. Looking down at him, so small and helpless I find myself overwhelmed with an intense mixture of love and fear.
Thanks to Scully I know what it is to feel a love so massive and indescribable it's sheer size is enough to shake me to the very core of my existence. Before this, loving her scared me more than any beast or monster we had ever encountered. What if I fail her somehow? What if I can't protect her from the horrors that are so common in our lives? What if I lose her?
However what I feel now with William is so very different. While I may feel the need to protect Scully I still know she doesn't necessarily require my assistance. But William... he needs me completely. And not just to protect him from the evils that his mother and I are so familiar with but to be there for him emotionally and spiritually as well. Scully and I are going to be the architects of his world. He is going to look to us for the answers. He's going to expect us to know. Which of course begs the question: what if we don't know? What if I can't help him? What will I do?
It doesn't help that my own father wasn't the best of examples. I know deep down that he loved me and did the best that he could. But that's the problem. That's what scares the hell out of me. He wanted to be there for us. He wanted to protect us. He tried. And yet, it wasn't enough. He still failed. How am I any different than he was forty years ago?
But what am I going to do? Run away? Leave him and his mother to fend for themselves? Even if I honestly believed that they would somehow be better off without me I couldn't do it. I couldn't because every time I even so much as glance at him I can't help but fall in love with him all over again. Every one of his features, from his unbelievably tiny toes to his short soft unruly hair, demands that I stay. Demands that I see this through. How else will I ever find out what kind of man he will grow up to be? How else will I know if his hair is going to stay brown or turn red? How else will I know what he sounds like? What his walk will be like? How he'll stand? How else will I get to watch him take his first steps or throw his first baseball? Or discover if he'll turn out just like his mother, raised eyebrow and all or more like me with an unquenchable desire for sunflower seeds and the need to stick his fingers in all things gooey? Or maybe he'll surprise us and become someone totally different with his own little gestures and quirks. I don't know. But I do know that there is nothing in this world that can keep me from being here to see everything he has to show me.
Still as much as I can't wait to see all those things I know that when I do I'll look back on this moment and miss the person he is now. The way his hands are so tiny and delicate and yet already strong and firm as they grip my finger. A grip so tight and insistent it's as if he's willing me to stay with him, to never let him go, to be there for him, to love him. And how can I possibly refuse that?
And then there's those eyes. Those extraordinarily clear blue eyes that are so much like his mother's and yet so completely his own. When they look at me there's such an openness, such a look of wonder and curiosity. With every look those eyes asks me a myriad of questions: Who are you? What part are you going to play in my life? And a slew of other questions that I can't wait to show him the answer to.
Then there's his face, so round and soft with a small chin and a little forehead that scrunches up sometimes when he looks at me. I just know he's deep in thought and I would give anything to find out just what exactly he's pondering.
And his lips. His lips always blow my mind because those are my lips. My lips! I just can't believe it. Consciously I know that he's mine and yet I'm still shocked when I notice those lips and I can't help but be overwhelmed all over again with sheer wonder at the knowledge that this bundle in my arms is my son.
Then there's his nose. His small perfectly rounded little nose. A nose that I pray he's inherited from his mother. A nose that I can't help but touch every time I hold him. But my favorite thing about his nose is that when he's tired all I have to do is start on the bridge and lightly move my finger down to the tip ever so slowly over and over again. And then, almost magically with every stroke, his eyes seemingly become heavier and heavier as he slips quietly into sleep.
That's another thing I never realized. The complete and total sense of accomplishment that comes when you put a baby to sleep. The way every one of his features becomes still and his face is completely peaceful and relaxed. The way I can feel every soft beat of his strong little heart. The way he always curls up and tries to get as close to my chest as possible, grabbing onto the fabric of my shirt as he burrows his face into my neck. And when he finally gets settled I relish the feel of his breath on my neck and his soft hair as it brushes against my chin.
But what I love the most is the way he smells. Of baby powder and soft cotton and milk and even a hint of Scully. And it's in that moment that I see the amount of trust he puts in me. Somehow he knows that as long as he's in my arms I will never allow anything bad to happen to him. That as long as I'm here, he will be safe. It's such a pure and unadulterated expression of his faith in me that it intensifies my desire to be everything he needs each time I hold his sleeping form.
And even when I'm not holding him I still love to watch him sleep. To watch his chest rise and fall. To marvel at the way I can see his eyes moving beneath their lids, causing his long thick eyelashes to flutter. I wonder what he dreams about? What possible things could occupy his mind as he slumbers? Are his dreams like ours or are they beyond our comprehension? It's almost enough to make me wish I could still read minds. Just for a moment. Just to see. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's the mystery that makes it all so magical.
Scully thinks it's funny that I'll sit there in front of his crib and watch him as he sleeps, even though I know she does it too. Because, despite some of the lingering insecurities that may well up at times, there are so many more times when I'm with him that it all becomes so clear. Times when all my fears about the possibilities and the implications fade away and all I'm left with his this all encompassing feeling of absolute love. It is in that moment that I finally know who I am and what my purpose in life is:
I am William's father.
THE END
Holding William - my son - I am awestruck by the implications of who he is and what he's going to require of me. Now, I'm not referring to the virtually incomprehensible difficulties inherent to his parent's rather unique lifestyle. I don't need to. The so-called normal requirements of parenthood alone are enough to make your heart stop. Looking down at him, so small and helpless I find myself overwhelmed with an intense mixture of love and fear.
Thanks to Scully I know what it is to feel a love so massive and indescribable it's sheer size is enough to shake me to the very core of my existence. Before this, loving her scared me more than any beast or monster we had ever encountered. What if I fail her somehow? What if I can't protect her from the horrors that are so common in our lives? What if I lose her?
However what I feel now with William is so very different. While I may feel the need to protect Scully I still know she doesn't necessarily require my assistance. But William... he needs me completely. And not just to protect him from the evils that his mother and I are so familiar with but to be there for him emotionally and spiritually as well. Scully and I are going to be the architects of his world. He is going to look to us for the answers. He's going to expect us to know. Which of course begs the question: what if we don't know? What if I can't help him? What will I do?
It doesn't help that my own father wasn't the best of examples. I know deep down that he loved me and did the best that he could. But that's the problem. That's what scares the hell out of me. He wanted to be there for us. He wanted to protect us. He tried. And yet, it wasn't enough. He still failed. How am I any different than he was forty years ago?
But what am I going to do? Run away? Leave him and his mother to fend for themselves? Even if I honestly believed that they would somehow be better off without me I couldn't do it. I couldn't because every time I even so much as glance at him I can't help but fall in love with him all over again. Every one of his features, from his unbelievably tiny toes to his short soft unruly hair, demands that I stay. Demands that I see this through. How else will I ever find out what kind of man he will grow up to be? How else will I know if his hair is going to stay brown or turn red? How else will I know what he sounds like? What his walk will be like? How he'll stand? How else will I get to watch him take his first steps or throw his first baseball? Or discover if he'll turn out just like his mother, raised eyebrow and all or more like me with an unquenchable desire for sunflower seeds and the need to stick his fingers in all things gooey? Or maybe he'll surprise us and become someone totally different with his own little gestures and quirks. I don't know. But I do know that there is nothing in this world that can keep me from being here to see everything he has to show me.
Still as much as I can't wait to see all those things I know that when I do I'll look back on this moment and miss the person he is now. The way his hands are so tiny and delicate and yet already strong and firm as they grip my finger. A grip so tight and insistent it's as if he's willing me to stay with him, to never let him go, to be there for him, to love him. And how can I possibly refuse that?
And then there's those eyes. Those extraordinarily clear blue eyes that are so much like his mother's and yet so completely his own. When they look at me there's such an openness, such a look of wonder and curiosity. With every look those eyes asks me a myriad of questions: Who are you? What part are you going to play in my life? And a slew of other questions that I can't wait to show him the answer to.
Then there's his face, so round and soft with a small chin and a little forehead that scrunches up sometimes when he looks at me. I just know he's deep in thought and I would give anything to find out just what exactly he's pondering.
And his lips. His lips always blow my mind because those are my lips. My lips! I just can't believe it. Consciously I know that he's mine and yet I'm still shocked when I notice those lips and I can't help but be overwhelmed all over again with sheer wonder at the knowledge that this bundle in my arms is my son.
Then there's his nose. His small perfectly rounded little nose. A nose that I pray he's inherited from his mother. A nose that I can't help but touch every time I hold him. But my favorite thing about his nose is that when he's tired all I have to do is start on the bridge and lightly move my finger down to the tip ever so slowly over and over again. And then, almost magically with every stroke, his eyes seemingly become heavier and heavier as he slips quietly into sleep.
That's another thing I never realized. The complete and total sense of accomplishment that comes when you put a baby to sleep. The way every one of his features becomes still and his face is completely peaceful and relaxed. The way I can feel every soft beat of his strong little heart. The way he always curls up and tries to get as close to my chest as possible, grabbing onto the fabric of my shirt as he burrows his face into my neck. And when he finally gets settled I relish the feel of his breath on my neck and his soft hair as it brushes against my chin.
But what I love the most is the way he smells. Of baby powder and soft cotton and milk and even a hint of Scully. And it's in that moment that I see the amount of trust he puts in me. Somehow he knows that as long as he's in my arms I will never allow anything bad to happen to him. That as long as I'm here, he will be safe. It's such a pure and unadulterated expression of his faith in me that it intensifies my desire to be everything he needs each time I hold his sleeping form.
And even when I'm not holding him I still love to watch him sleep. To watch his chest rise and fall. To marvel at the way I can see his eyes moving beneath their lids, causing his long thick eyelashes to flutter. I wonder what he dreams about? What possible things could occupy his mind as he slumbers? Are his dreams like ours or are they beyond our comprehension? It's almost enough to make me wish I could still read minds. Just for a moment. Just to see. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's the mystery that makes it all so magical.
Scully thinks it's funny that I'll sit there in front of his crib and watch him as he sleeps, even though I know she does it too. Because, despite some of the lingering insecurities that may well up at times, there are so many more times when I'm with him that it all becomes so clear. Times when all my fears about the possibilities and the implications fade away and all I'm left with his this all encompassing feeling of absolute love. It is in that moment that I finally know who I am and what my purpose in life is:
I am William's father.
THE END