Will and I camped out last night, listening to music, watching videos, reading books, and watching a thunderstorm out the window. I was mighty nervous that my solid-rock sleep habits would earn me a ‘Worst Father of the Year’ award, but his little whimperings were indeed enough to rouse me from the couch.
We both got up every few hours for chest PT (basically thumping him all over his chest with a little cupped dealio), diaper changes, comforting, singing, talking holding, and general enjoyment. With the room all to ourselves, I felt so deeply connected to him that it hurt. Which welled up all kinds of feelings of jealous indignation, fierce protection, and brokenhearted disappointment at his difficult road ahead. “I’m so sorry, Will,” I cried, and tried not to drop my tears on his bright and beautiful face.
I briefly considered organizing my rant against God into a blog post, but I was too tired. So instead, I went to sleep.