You were conceived under a full Texas moon and named for the luminous grace of the evening sky. You came to us on a moonlit night, November 12, 2012 at 8:44 PM, thrust from your mother's womb and into our arms. Child, I have witnessed strange and remarkable events in this life. Your introduction was a triumph of nature's glory.
Here you are just seconds from birth. Everything appears in order: fingers and toes accounted for, little heart furiously beating, eyes full of wonder. You are announcing yourself to all within earshot.
Welcome to the party, little one. Three years your mother and I pursued you. The planning and preparation, the incessant doctor visits, the ovulation-cycle charting, fertility treatments, your mother's dietary constraints, her crying spells, a laparoscopic surgery and a miscarriage, all were requirements for your RSVP.
The determination of your mother to bring you into this world is a testament to her passion for our family. I am ever grateful to her. She chronicled her journey
here should you wish to learn more. Nevertheless, you arrived on your terms, without intervention or aide (save a few cocktails), as I expected you would. And here you are. We could not be more delighted.
I hope you like the accommodations. Your room is painted yellow, the color of the sunrise. There are fanciful objects pasted to the ceiling and playful birds on the wall, doves, wrens, finches and the like. Your mother stitched the pink ones that watch over your crib. I hung the shelves that bear your stuffed-animal friends. You appear to favor the sock monkey, an excellent choice, cheerful and unassuming. You stare at it as I stare at you.
Are you tired from your journey? I would very much like to hear the tale. What a strange trip. If only you could speak of it. No worries. We will rest for now, and when you wake, your mother will offer you something to drink.
Of what do infants dream? I observe your eyes twitching. Your face contorts as though you were conversing with the gods. The occasional grin suggests an inside joke. Or perhaps your visions are simpler affairs. Your mother's breasts, perhaps? I too have had this dream.
Sleep, sweet girl, for soon we will join the others. Everyone is here, Grandmothers and Grandfathers, Aunts and Uncles, Cousins, friends, neighbors, admirers young and old.
Yes, the party started long before you or I arrived, and will continue after we are gone. This is as it has been for as long as anyone can remember, an enduring cycle of renewal. Each of us "struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more". That is Shakespeare, by the way. We will get to him. The point is, one's occasion here is fixed, and one's exit certain. All are subject.
Our role, your mother and me, is to help you find your way, as best we are able. We invited you, after all, and are responsible for your care, for showing you around, making introductions, imparting the basics of education, etiquette and so forth.
For instance, it is generally accepted that one should treat others as one wishes to be treated herself. This may appear self-evident to you, as it does to most people. The Golden Rule, as it is often referred, is universally accepted as a moral convention, appearing across cultures, continents and millennia.
Still, other matters are received with lesser consensus, questions of culture and taste. How often should one bathe? When is it acceptable to throw food? Is falling asleep at the supermarket permissible? To wear or not to wear pants? The answers are not always clear. Much will be revealed through instruction and trial-and-error. Your mother and I will advise, albeit known that neither are regarded as infallible.
I am of the opinion that no guest arrives to a party empty handed, for just as each of us draws upon her companions for inspiration, knowledge, sustenance, solidarity, each in turn contributes something of value to others, thus enriching the collective experience. All are possessed of gifts, dear girl, a great many unknown to us. What gifts do you bear, I wonder? What
song will you sing?
Already you have blessed your mother and me. I am positively transformed by your presence. I feel larger in the world, as though a brighter signal emanates from my core. Where once I fretted that I may lose cherished personal pursuits by assuming responsibility as your host, now that you are here I find the roll expansive, the task joyful. I am richer for it. And that you will carry on after my departure (one hopes) is a wellspring of both inspiration and pride, for you are as close as I will likely come to immortality. The very thought of your journey ahead and the part I am honored to play in it compels me to be a better man, a better husband, a better friend.
The evening you were born, your mother asked that I retrieve some items from the car. I recall stopping for a coffee in the hospital cafeteria and losing my way on route back to the maternity ward. A kindly nurse stopped to assist. As I uttered the words, "my wife and daughter...", a tear came to my eye. Upon reflection, it occurs to me that I was confronted in that moment with a profound change. My capacity for love had swelled beyond anything I imagined to be capable of possessing. This is the gift you bestowed.
My wish for you, Iyla Grace, is that you will discover the treasures in your possession and shine your light with integrity. That which makes you unique in this world is a blessed thing. Only you can discover your worth, for "it is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves". Again, Shakespeare.
Take nothing for granted, least of all the good fortune that shines on you. Delight in the pleasures this world has to offer, learn to appreciate irony, laugh at absurdity, cry over heartbreak, challenge ignorance and injustice, and face the great mysteries with eyes wide open. Be kind to yourself first and to others.
Welcome to the party, my child. What times we will have. Each day a new discovery. Adventures await.
