Evabird, on your 213th day, you woke at five a.m., and I brought you into bed with dad and me, and you nursed, and I worried that I loved you too much. All night, I had jolted up in bed, afraid, but then you were with me, and I told you it was okay, and I pleaded with you to sleep more, but you kicked and riled and stared at the fan. Finally, we all woke and had breakfast, and then the nanny, Martha, came and you jumped--fast as a fish--into her arms. I sat in my office and stared out the window at you two, watched you laugh with her, and I couldn't even write a sentence, and I wondered why I ever even try.
Then she brought you in, and I listened through the walls as she sang you the alphabet and fed you green beans and squash and apples. I worried that you wouldn't know that I love you most.
Just after noon, we wandered to the rose garden with dear friends, and you slept and loved and smiled and slept again. O the roses! Thousands and thousands of them: Moonbeams and Keepsakes and French Perfume, Golden Wings and Honeymoons and Silver Jubilee. Dusk was still a long time coming, and we walked home, and I fed you, and you went to your crib where you stared at your aquarium and finally slept (again).
It's not even 9 o'clock, my little love, and already I've gone in to check on you more times that I can remember. Your eyes flutter, and I think of the other roses we saw: Candy Stripe and Lemon Sherbert, Summer Snow and Lady Reading, and I hope, Evabird, that your night is flooded with the scent of them, that you will sleep and dream, that when I go in to check on you again (and again), you will be so deeply peaceful that my hand on your chest is as light and fleeting as yesterday.