Tonight as I put my baby to bed, I rested my hand against his forehead and he closed his eyes and nuzzled into my scent and I thought about my father's last minutes.  I thought about the way he didn't breathe on his own for 14 hours, about the machine that pumped air into his lungs, and then how he took one last struggling muscular breath and his eyes opened and he looked up.  I thought about how the doctor came in and gently moved his hands over his eyes to close them, the same way I was putting my sweet brand new baby to bed.

Lane doesn't have the best coordination yet, but his sense of touch is perfect and when the back of his hand comes into contact with skin, he rubs it side to side like petting.  It's the sweetest thing.

If my father were alive, I think he would be proud of me.  No, no I should say I am absolutely sure my father was proud of me every single day I've been alive.  Every time my feet have ever hit the stage, every conquest, every step towards New York, every move back home, getting into school, graduation, landing jobs, he always told me how proud he was of me.  And sometimes he told me for no particular reason at all.

This dear baby, the ways I love him...I'm not sure my heart would know how to be this full if it weren't for the last moments of my daddy's life-
of seeing how absolutely precious life is
and how absolutely short it is
and how beautiful and heartbreaking and exquisite every moment is
when we are alive.


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