It is at this time, in the dead of night with my big boy laying on me, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of his chest, that I feel most like a father. If the flavor of parenthood is hope, then the back note is fear. I check his breathing, not to make certain that is still in synch with mine but to verify that it is happening at all. It is a little shocking to realize how often I get the vital signs of my children. He is breathing fine and I wonder for how long that will happen. Eighty years? More? Less? What will his eyes see between now and that last intake of air? How many of his breaths will be expended to count away anger? Will there be someone who loves him, truly adores him, listening to his passionate whispers? Will there be a baby on his chest, a little piece of his soul, destroying his good night’s sleep?

And then there is the big, be a better person question; if I died right now, what would he remember of me? Would his calm peaceful time, at some subconscious level, be my breath flowing through him? These are the thoughts that occupy my mind in the pre-dawn hours of fatherhood. Mind you, these are not “where”s my Prozac?’, danger to self or others kind of depressive thoughts that would require psychiatric intervention. Actually, they serve to have an opposite purpose. They bond me to reality and keep me focused on that which is truly important. They are thoughts born of one simple statement: I really love this little insomniac on my chest.

I cannot tell if he is asleep or only dazed because he is facing away from me and his eyelashes are so long that I can’t see his eyes. Timing is crucial here. If I try to put him into bed prematurely, he will have a fit and the whole process starts over. But I have a trick. I place my hand over his eyes, careful not to touch his face. If he’s awake, he will push away my hand but not tonight. He lays on me breathing gently and deeply, my hand unnoticed.

I take one more breath before delivering my boy to bed. The small kiss on the forehead makes him squirm a bit but he is out for the night. Give me five minutes and I will be too. I check on the older boy before crawling into bed with my wife. She’s snoring gently and I happy see that she is asleep. She needs her rest because, very soon, the night shift will be off duty.

Good night.