Seven years ago we took our son #1 home from the NICU after a 53 day stay (he was born 10.5 weeks early). At the time I thought it was the worst thing to ever happen to us. I remember leaving the hospital without the baby and bawling. Going back and forth, pumping, having to wait days before I could even hold him. Feeding tubes. Brain bleeds. In hindsight it was such a miniscule experience in the grand scheme of pain and trauma. Kenneth was always such a doting dad.
He did karate with our son.
This picture was taken when the baby was 3 months old. When I look at it I think about the days of innocence, when “this” reality wasn’t even a tiny idea in my mind. It was inconceivable.
I remember that time we got to meet Neil Gaiman. Kenneth monopolized his attention, in deep discussion over writing practices.
The birth of our third child. We actually wanted 4!
Our first Christmas together in the apartment I hated, although we were walking distance from the beach. Those were the days.
We went camping every year.
And now…this. Visiting him on Sundays. The baby waves to him and says “Bye Da Da! Bye! Bye Da Da!” People routinely stare at us with tears in their eyes.