Dad 2022: Weekend Books and Sounds

Saturday night Mom and I read to you as you fell asleep. I went first. I moved the rocking chair around to the front of your crib and I read Frog and Toad and watched as your eyelids grew heavy. Then mom tagged me out. She sat in the chair and I left the room and she read Matilda to you until you dozed off completely. Then Mom and I went downstairs to watch a scary movie. You woke up twice during the movie, but instead of bounding to your side, we waited, and—wonderfully—you soothed yourself. And then you slept for eleven hours straight.

Sunday morning mom set her alarm and got up early and made coffee and sat on the big blue chair in the bedroom with a book. She cracked open the sliding door and read with the cool morning air coming off the balcony. Then I got out of bed and poured a coffee and read a book downstairs on the couch. After, mom walked Apricot and I went to the gym and on the way home I stopped and picked up bagels. We all ate breakfast at the table, you included, with the Sunday paper around us and Apricot stretched out at our feet. This was our weekend. We try to have many weekends like this. No work, no emails, no worries. Just us, you, Apricot. The family, doing what fills us up and brings us joy. There is a steadiness to it all. A pursuit of delights.

Speaking of delight, you have discovered a new syllable. You proceeded to utter that syllable all weekend. The syllable is “da.” Sometimes you say “da,” other times you say “dadadada,” and still other times you say, “dada.” As in, dada. Once in a while I swear you even say, “hi, dada.” I don’t know that you know what you are saying, that you know what you mean, signifier and signified and all that. I’m pretty sure you don’t, not yet, anyway. But hearing you give voice to a syllable that sounds just a little like dad—well, that made this a very happy weekend, indeed. I haven’t been able to say “dad” to my own father in over a year, now that he’s gone. Of course, I still have conversations with him in my head, many a conversation, many about you. But I miss calling him dad, and I miss the way he would hug me whenever I’d come to visit and he’d say, “Hello, my son.” Dad, son. Syllables, signs. Sounds, people. I miss saying dad out loud. So whether you mean it or not, whether “da” is just the latest vocal discovery of yours, like a raspberry or a gurgle, I want you to know that I am listening, I hear you, and I’ll take it, my daughter. Hello to you, too.