I went upstairs last night to feed my newborn son asking my wife to eat a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup and to rest. They say you need to take care of those who take care of you.
The young man was upset when I took him from his new crib to feed so I instinctively began to sing to him in the blue-light lit room the old lullaby my mother sang to me..."too la roo la roo la...too ra loo ra li..." The great thing about that song is you can write the words as you go. I have never been to Kilarney, but I know my own back yard.
As the serenade continued a moment came where I had my him on my lap, his chubby, little trunk facing me held between my legs, arms akimbo, bracing his head in my hands as an extension of my human frame. His eyes opened to see what our lactation consultant called his "Superman." She pointed out when Preston is spread-eagle on my chest, skin to skin, his arms don't reach all the way across and he fits into a very small percentage of my body. "Imagine how safe he feels with all of that man around him," she opined.
I don't know if I am a "Superman," but today I thank my mother for singing to me when I was a child. As I crooned, this wee little man who will rely on me and his mother for everything the next little while, smiled contentedly, his eyes following mine in the violet light unable to see the tears that were running from mine. I am a father and this is my son. I see I will lift the world for him if need be. Let there be no doubt.
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