Child,
I have heard small stories about what my parents' life was like when I was born. I have seen a handful of bleached out pictures. And still I wonder. I wonder more about it now, as we prepare for your arrival, than I ever have before. I want these pages to offer you some record of what life is like for Kristin and I: who we are, how we spend our time, what this place is like and what's on the stereo.
Tuesday I woke up in a hotel in Eugene. I travel for my work, sometimes a lot, to the various cities and towns of Oregon. Tuesday was typical of my work days; I stood up in front of 25 people and drew a big picture on the wall for three hours.
I missed my time late at night with you belly-kicking on Monday. I imagine that traveling will get harder after you're here. I already miss Kristin terribly when I go, but both of you? That'll be crushing, the gravity of my time away.
It's great fun to have a job drawing on walls and telling stories. It's a way of teaching I've discovered that puts all my strange quirks to good use. I hope that throughout your life you know me as a teacher; it is decent work and keeps me from disappearing completely into the dark hours of my days. I am outgoing and funny when I teach and train. I am expansive and thoughtful and my intentions hum strong and true. I met your mother in a training session I was leading. Teaching jobs have launched me into the greatest adventures. At day's end, it feels OK to be a teacher.
As a way to introduce myself to the group, I told them that you were on your way. Now there's a small, sweet pool of goodwill for you in Eugene. I think people are delighted by the idea of the eternal hope children promise. And they get to tease parents-to-be about the forthcoming loss of sleep and a steady stream of dirty diapers. How touching. And original.
I drove back from Eugene with my colleague Trish. She spent much of the trip surfing the internet on her cell phone. This is an arduous process in this day and age because the screens in telephones have such poor resolution. By the time you read this, today's most amazing technology will be relics. My sluggish phone connection to the web will be a historical oddity. Cell phones will be small and strange and beyond my imagination.
Trish and I talked a lot on the trip. I think you have opened up some vein in me; I recall little details of my life and have sudden outbursts of random, unnecessary philosophy. People have been very tolerant of my stories that go nowhere. I hope I am not moving into that phase of life where I think what I think is worth everyone else thinking about.
When I got home I immediately checked the phone messages, snail mail and e-mail. Though I claim strong anti-social tendencies, I have a compulsive need to be in contact. It's an ugly vanity I think. Happily your Grandma wrote a note. As she sorted through her late mother's papers she found a family listing that she sent. She didn't suggest we give you any of these names, but I pass them along to you as part of your songline: “…a list of the names of her mother and siblings, the Durochers or Desrochers: Celina, Malvina, Mary Louise, Olive, Anna, Eva (Anna & Eva were twins-Anna was my memere) and Laura who was the baby of the family. The brothers were Francis, Peter, Dave, Fred and Paul who were twins, Henry and Joseph.” That makes Anna your great-great grandmother.
After testing my contact with the world I went straight to bed. I don't often nap at five in the afternoon, but training absolutely exhausts me. It just pours out of me until I'm completely empty. I can't do it any other way. The long drives don't help any either.
The evening traced a common ritual. Your mother and I eat together as often as we can, though we rarely eat the same meal. We have different foods, she and I. I eat nothing but chicken in convenient formats. She eats vegetables, rice, fake and sometimes real meat. She is feeding you well.
I spent several hours that evening working on the computer creating a graphic for a work Fun Day flyer. Sadly it was a rush job and not a very good one. Even though I think I did a bad job of it, I am an archivist. If you ask me someday, I bet you I can find a copy of that water skier on crutches.
As ever, I stayed up too late. When I finally laid down, you booted me in the hand a few times as I talked my silent talk to you. Your Mom was awake. These days she's having a hard time sleeping. She'll wake up at two or three and be awake and fidgety for a hour or more. I don't help matters any by arriving to bed so late and needing to grab her midsection to feel for you. It's rather impolite really, but I do it every night. It's like living near the ocean and hearing the surf; your body voice is soothing and magical.
The day fades from me.
pa-