Letters From Mom & Dad To Kellen, Our 1-Month Newborn Son

Kellen gazing into his Mom’s eyes while she softly holds him in our home in Arvada, Colorado

Dear Kellen-You’re one month old today.

It’s felt like an eternity and a blur at the same time. Somehow both can be true.

You’ve officially turned your dad into a strictly newborn photographer.

I’ll be honest — it’s taken me a bit to warm up to you. Instinctively, I love you. That part came immediately. But connection? That’s been slower. Still finding its footing. Your wandering eyes, furrowing your brow and soft coos are starting to chip away at my seemingly cold heart, though. Day by day.

I’m excited for what’s ahead... and also, you’re a pain in our ass. I know, I know. You’re just a newborn. I’ve been reminded by everyone that you don’t have “bad behavior.” You just are. I get it.

I tend to say the quiet things out loud. The things people usually edit or keep to themselves. That’s never really been me.

Fatherhood is hard. I have a feeling the newborn stage may be the most difficult chapter for me. I imagine once I can throw you on my back for hikes, bike rides, and long wandering days, we’ll be inseparable. But right now, you’re often a nighttime werewolf with an insatiable appetite for milk. My long hikes are mostly to the fridge, warming bottles throughout the day.

Jumping Jacks…well sort of…on our couch at home.

I get very little done these days. I hold you. I change you. I try, gently and optimistically to transfer you from my chest into your bassinet so you’ll sleep. You never fall for it. You just want to be a kangaroo in my pouch. On us. Always.

I know it’s cute. I know it’s where you feel safe. And I respect that. But one night after you spent 6 straight hours on my chest on our 'shift,' I told my wife as she came to save the day...'"Get this creature off of me." And I might have called you primitive a time or two. Yes, there’s levity and a sense of humor In these.

But something shifted for me this past week.

I’m having kidney surgery next month... an issue I recently learned I was born with. And then we learned that you have the same condition via an ultrasound this week. It’s not supposed to be genetic, but there it is. I feel a sense of guilt. It’s not logical, but it’s real. I hope you won’t need surgery like I do.

Still, it gave me a deeper sense of empathy and connection. A clearer sense of purpose. A quiet we’ve got this, bud. We’ll give each other strength. And your mom, who is an absolute badass and far tougher than either of us boys, will lead the way.

Each day, I feel our bond growing.

We go on walks while you sit proudly in your rolling chariot. Your eyes are starting to lock with mine a little longer now. We’re learning your language. Your patterns. We’re learning how to be parents.

I don’t think I’d held a baby in fifteen years before you. For much of our lives, we didn’t even think we’d go down the having-a-kid route. And now that you’re here, we can’t imagine life without you.

We’re excited to see who you’ll become with each passing week and every sleepless night.

Love you, buddy.

We’re just getting started.- Dad

And from your Mama....

Kellen, in his happiest of places. On his mom’s chest in our home in Arvada, Colorado

Dear Kellen,

I write this one-handed while you’re nestled on me. I actually just had you down for some night crib time, which is a nearly impossible task, albeit fleeting (this time, we got 36 minutes!).

You were born one month ago. I believe I’ve looked down and counted your tiny fingers every day since then. Three hundred-ish. I’m simply in awe of you.

I start my days with you at 2:30am and let your dad off his Kellen night-shift. Ninety percent of the time when I enter your room, you are curled on his chest. I know what he’s feeling; it’s annoying, and also, an honor that you feel safe in our warmth, lulled by our heartbeats, steady in our embraces.

I’m sleep-deprived, dazed, and bedazzled. I have no idea what is happening in the world outside of your daily patterns. I’m learning your rhythms and trying my best to synchronize. You’re predictable and totally unpredictable all at once (which, as a theatrical person myself, I totally respect)!

I am not sure if it’s “just reflexes” at this point, or if I’m witnessing your little personality emerge - your intensity makes me laugh; those little clenched fists. Your softness makes me melt; those little coos. Your curiosity makes me proud; those little wondering eyes.

We are candidly anticipating life once you are older - a little more freedom, adventure, sleep. Though I know my sleepless hours with you now are priceless jewels. Yes, I am sleep-deprived, dazed, behind on world events and my own little life, but my heart swells looking down at your face. I’ve seen almost every sunrise for a month. I haven’t meditated a second, but have never been more present. Music sounds sweeter, I can write again, food (that we scarf down between tending to you) tastes better… all since you’ve arrived.

Thank you for choosing us to be your parents. One beautiful month down together and many more go!

All my love forever,

Mama