Zeph is asleep on my chest, lightly stirring and breathing and sighing as my heart melts within.

I have to stop and read that again a million times.

But he doesn’t last in that position long.  If I’m not standing up swaying and lightly bouncing, I’m not doing it right.  Too quickly he’s fussing and I have to hand him back to Lu.  She’s on 24 hour feeding patrol.  And he’s a thirsty guy, just like his dad.

His dad.  Me.  Finally.  We did it and it’s the first thing I can believe in so many years.  Silas is my son, but I never got to be his dad, no matter what people say.  And feeling that way for so long, as something I couldn’t be and didn’t have and wasn’t able to do, it feels shocking to apply that label to myself right now.  Shocking but perfect.  Shocking but right.  For the first time in my life the chaos and correctness and beautiful, brilliant danger exactly matches what I want.

The first time we were home together, the three of us, it was like a vortex swirling out from Zephyr rearranging my mind, my soul, the physical reality around us.  Immediately I had to start pushing furniture around and go through boxes of clothes and gifts and random objects of babynessas as Lu lay on the couch with our son at her breast directing my efforts.  It was fucking glorious.

This is his house too, now.

12 days into our new lives together and the grandparents are freaking out.  Our friends are suddenly lighter and elated.  We are wrapped up in his quiet, alert gaze when he feels like being chill and amazed by the lungs and breath and voice as he screams into the night as all babies do when they are alive and want everyone to know it.

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