A letter

Dear Claire,

Our time together ends today.

I've spent the past 12 weeks and one day off work to care for you. It's been one of the happiest three months of my life. Some days have been busy and challenging. Like the ones that, at 4:30 p.m., found you sitting on our bed ready to play more while I was slumped next to you desperate for a nap. Other days were wide open, like blank canvasses that we could splash with color. On those days, we hiked, played, explored. We covered most of the trails hugging Tryon Creek. We visited art galleries. We listened to the hiss of espresso machines at coffee shops. We greeted absolute (and sometimes annoying) strangers with genuine smiles. We drove 20 miles roundtrip at least once a week to mom's office so you could nurse and put a conference table to good use with a diaper change.

We practiced sign language at the library. You plucked your first flower petal, met your first duck, grabbed your first fistful of moss. You saluted the American flag flying in front of a rowhouse down the street. You helped me keep track of Cubs games, maddening as they were (though you didn't seem to care). We grabbed at each other's hair. We tested the limits of our vocal cords. We danced to Aretha Franklin and Talking Heads.

You watched me fold a lot of laundry and mix three batches of granola. You rode the Baby Bjorn as I mopped the floor and mowed the lawn. You tolerated my frequent trips to the computer to check e-mail. You somehow survived -- and forgave me for -- an unassisted trip via stroller down the front steps of our porch. You grew at least four inches, added enough flesh and bone to have inflicted tendinitis on both my wrists and fashioned yourself a silky head of hair. I grew (and shaved) several beards, became more careful with the stroller and acquired a reverence for the miracle of human life and spirit. Because you're full of both, Claire. Life and spirit.

I'm not going away, of course. In the years to come, we can still play our favorite game -- Peek-a-Boo -- for as long as you demand. It's just that my disappearances will be much longer now. I promise never to disappear entirely, though. I can't do that. Not after these 12 weeks. Not on your life.

You don't know what's about to change. You can't understand it. Something might seem different for a while --you won't be able to put your long little finger on exactly what. Or, you may not even notice. I can guarantee you I will.

If I could only sing from my desk when you need a song to make you smile, forget an owie, fall asleep. That's not real life, though. We all must learn to comfort ourselves, crawl on our own, let go of that which we hold dearest.

It was a great time. Thanks for being such a sweet girl.

Brent