I remember looking across the delivery room and seeing him hunched over in a chair pulled to the middle of the room, Aida snuggled in his arms, her staring up at him, him staring down.
It seemed like that moment lasted forever.
In the days and weeks after Aida was born, I found myself telling Steve more times than I'm proud that he better not ever leave us. They say it's biological instinct, this sudden insecurity that bubbles up in a mother bear after the baby bear is born. Steve took it in stride, continually reassuring me in his matter-of-fact way that he wasn't going anywhere. Then, he spent the next two months in round-the-clock service to Aida and me.
Though a master sleeper, he rose quickly from bed whenever he knew he could help with changing or rocking. When I started pumping to alleviate milk engorgement, Steve jumped into action without my asking, beginning a steady routine of bottle washing, sterilizing, milk-bagging and labeling. Before he retired for the night, he would set up the pump with fresh bottles so that my multiple mid-morning, post-feeding dates with pump would be easy and quick. He knew how I hated attaching myself to a machine for a few painful minutes and he did what he could to make it better for me.
He coordinated groceries and meals with my mother, paid the bills and talked with the doctors. He took over house-cleaning and laundry, communicating with my mom about what she could do to help, what errands needed running. He never batted an eye when I asked him to pick up embarrassing things at the store like more breast pads, even when that particular request led him to the customer service counter at WalMart, where he had to have an actual conversation with a stranger about where the heck the store keeps these things. (FYI, they don't. Target does.)
When my brain became a fragile cocktail of raging hormones and sleep deprivation, he held me tight and let me cry without questioning. As every fiber of my tired being convinced me I'd been physically decimated by this process, he found ways to make me feel attractive.
And he loved Aida.
Over the months, Aida has begun looking more and more like her father. The blueness of her eyes is now an exact match of the ones I stared into when I made my vows. She makes funny faces that remind me of his with his furrowed brow and crooked mouth. She pushes and stands and kicks and grabs with his determination. She sucks in the world around her with what I believe to be his insatiable curiosity. And, like him, she doesn't beat around the bush: When she's tired, she lets us know. But that's probably just a baby thing.
Back in the pre-Aida days -- we had 11 years of them, give or take a couple -- I fell in love with Steve because he made me laugh, took me on motorcycle rides and showed me love without pretense or drama. I stayed in love with him because his interest in me extended beyond our love for one another to the people I loved and the places and things I cared about, while my interest in him did the same. There's never been a minute I've spent with Steve in all these years that I wouldn't like to multiply by a six digit figure and do all over again.
Oh, and, me, him, island, alone, forever? Totally doable.
Now that we've entered into this scary world of parenthood, we're tripping along together, both of us trying to figure out how to merge the things we loved about our former life with the 14-pound, 25-inch, cooing, crying, laughing, babbling thing we love in this new life.
I don't exactly know how all this will play out. The cops reporter in me lives in constant fear of something horrible happening to this little family of ours. I know the flavor of unpredictable twists of fate and, even while rocking Aida, have remembered the faces and voices of grief-stricken parents or spouses I've known personally or interviewed for stories. I do know it'll probably be years before I ride on the back of Steve's motorcycle again. And I am sure that God feels he knows me best these days for the prayers I send up when Steve straps on his helmet and heads out for a ride alone.
I try not to take anything for granted.
As a father, Steve's had to play the least glamorous post-baby role there is. Daddies are great and all, but everyone knows the attention they receive doesn't compare with that of a pregnant woman or a newborn child. Yet I've watched him put on the mantel of fatherhood with the same quiet, loving service, humor and devotion I first noticed in him when we met forever ago.
On this day, Steve's birthday, I can't help but think about all the ways he makes my life better.
But when I see him holding the daughter we made, his blue eyes staring into her blue eyes, his big hands holding onto her little hands, I have a hard time imagining any better way than this.
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| Just born. Nov. 12, 2010. |
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| Daddy's eyes. April 2, 2011. |
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