Dear Matteo, One Month Old

I am so happy to be your Dad! 

Your arrival into the world was one of great speed and joy.

When I say speed, I mean it. This is the story of your birthday. 

Your sneaky Mom had some contractions in the very early morning of July 3 but didn't make a fuss to wake me up and bother telling me. Like I cared, right? Your Mom was convinced the doctors had your due date wrong, insisting it was supposed to be June 30, not July 7. By her calendar, you were already a few days late. By 9 a.m., we were all awake and decided that the contractions were close and strong enough to go to the hospital. Your sister stayed at the house with Grammie and Popa, who had arrived by car like the Indianians they are a few days earlier. 

Except we didn't go to the hospital like we did with your sister. We chose to have a different experience at the St. Joseph midwifery birthing center -- and the experience couldn't have been more different. The midwifery center is new since Eliza was born, so a new option for us. It provided some trade-offs. On the plus side, you get a modern, hotel suite-style room for labor, delivery and postpartum, including a great big bath for water labor. They offer nitrous oxide for pain, a doula onsite, and you also get to go home (and are forced) within 12 hours after delivery. On the not-so-plus side, there's no epidural option, and if delivery goes the wrong way, you're a few minutes by cart to the doctors across the street.

When we arrived at the midwifery center, we got checked in and you had some stress tests. We weren't ready for go-time yet, so the midwife on staff advised us to go for a walk for an hour and come back. Your Mom had some good contractions, leaning over some outdoor stairs on I Street that we can drive by anytime you ask. She's a big fan of leaning over and forming a right angle through contractions. We went back into the midwifery center after that hour, and while your Mom had dilated more, we still weren't in active labor. The time was about 10:45 a.m.

There will be some debate in the history starting about now. Your Mom has a communication style based upon the word "funny" and "think." She uses them in a polysemic fashion to explain many unrelated things. Anything is "funny" to your Mom. Not "ha ha" funny, but as in strange, interesting, entertaining, etc. Funny is many things but never "serious." Your Mom also "thinks" many things, and usually "thinks" means "really want" or "should happen."

We were told to go for a walk again. That wasn't "funny" direction to your Mom and she chose to stay put. She was still having big contractions, so she said things like, "I think I might want an epidural" and "What if I went to the hospital?" Your Mom also uses questions as statements. Many people do. Take note of that. Because she said these things in such a roundabout way, they didn't happen. To that lesson, if you want something, say it directly. Even when people speak the same language, it doesn't mean they understand your version of it. Your Mom will claim that the midwives forced her to stay put, but I more think that we didn't communicate or really know what we wanted to do in the moment. 

Your Mom's contractions became suddenly stronger, and the midwives started prepping our birthing suite. Your Mom's water broke in the room at about 11:15 a.m., and I think she was happy to prove to the midwives we didn't need another damn walk. They asked her if she wanted to labor in the bath and she agreed. We had taken an online course for the water birth, and it's a good thing we did because you were born in that bathwater a little more than an hour later at 12:24 p.m. 

That's also why that little history on your Mom asking about an epidural didn't matter. You came too fast for her to get one anyway. And without an epidural your Mom performed a miracle getting your 9 pound, 11 ounce body out of hers. 

I think the bath helped a lot with the late contractions and active pushing that took your Mom no more than 20 minutes. She was in the back corner of the tub with feet up on the opposite end, and we had two midwives helping with delivery. I leaned over to hold your Mom's hand from one side of the tub. As you were a considerably large little guy, your shoulders got stuck after your head was born. That was scary because, hello, you were underwater. The talented midwives quickly reacted, turning your Mom over onto her hands and knees and pulling you out from behind out of the water. The midwives quickly cut the cord and moved you over to the table to help you start breathing. 

That was tough for me to watch. You were really limp. Your sister had a tough entry into the world, too. After a considerably long labor she was purple but had a good cry. You were nearly white, though it was hard to tell how much of that was vernix. Moreover it just took you more time to cry -- about a minute. You were trying but it just wasn't happening. They roughed you up some more, and we finally heard that cry we needed. I hugged the nurses immediately after hearing that first little noise. They rushed me to take off my shirt so you and I could have skin-to-skin time while your Mom was getting out of the tub and on the bed. I was so excited to get to hold you first! The doula took a first photo of us that I'll forever cherish. 

I'm sure you'll look at that photo in the future and think I look young, excited and awfully pale for that Italian crest tattoo. All true. 

Once your Mom was settled she got more skin-to-skin time with you. Your color came along nicely over that first hour and we examined all of your perfection. 

The story goes that when I was born, my extended family gathered around the viewing room to get a glimpse of me. Back in the 80s, hospitals were a little more relaxed and way less secure. They had these viewing rooms where they'd put all the newborns on display to give parents a break and distract visitors. My Nonno Enzo, a proud Italian immigrant, identified me and said in a thick Italian accent in front of a large group of Seattleites, "That's a Mottola. Look at the size of those balls!" 

Well, like father like son.

Nonno also said, "That's a light one." Though you're a quarter Italian, you had thick, dark hair -- thanks to your Mom. Your name suits you well. We liked the sound of Matteo, not named after anyone, and I like the rich alliteration with our last name. You already sound famous. Your middle name, Paolo, is of course a nod to me and your Nonno Paolo. 

Our first visitors were Eliza, Grammie and Popa. Eliza peeked around the corner into the room, honed in on you and your Mom and ran over at toddler speed, saying "baby wow" over and over. One emotion in the whole experience I didn't expect was the overwhelming feeling of realizing that we creating siblings. Your Mom and I created your relationship. What a trip. 

This experience of having another child has been so wonderfully different. As a new parent with Eliza, every day was an entertaining surprise. With you, we can anticipate what's next and look forward to it. I feel more appreciative of every moment we have, knowing how quickly it will come and go and how much I'll miss it. 

I've been home a lot of the past month due to paternity leave at work and a week of me being sick. It's been so fun to watch you grow and adapt to the world. You've spent most of that time in the cycle of sleeping, nursing, farting/belching, making dirty diapers and going back to sleep. My favorite moments right now are in the evenings, holding you while you sleep on my chest. You still fit between my chin and waist, and I know that won't last much longer. We think you're 15 pounds already! 

What's also different is that you're a little dude. I've been there and can relate to how the world is set up for you, what to embrace and what to change. It's an awesome reminder of all the life I've lived and all the life ahead of you. I'm excited for our relationship and my role to help you become the wonderful person that I know you will be. 

Love always, Dad

Dear Eliza, 21 Months Old

Dear Eliza,

You are a big sister now, hooray! Welcome to the Oldest Sibling Club. 

A few hours after Matteo was born, you came to the hospital with your Grammie and Popa to meet him. I'll never forget how you curiously peeked around the open door of our room to see if we were there. When you saw your Mom, you lit up and ran to the bed. You kept saying "Oh wow baby!" over and over. 

You were so sweet and excited to see Matteo. You looked him over for several minutes and cuddled with your Mom while he slept. After some practice at "gentle touches" with Matteo, you became distracted with your own voice and how you could make it echo with high screeches in the room. Such a toddler. That was your sign that you were done with visiting your brother, and we sent you back to the house. 

Just a week into being a family of five (I have to count Greta), we're getting used to a different dynamic. Just as we're keeping an eye on Matteo, you are getting quick on your feet. It's a concerning combination that made us lose track of you yesterday. I was cleaning up the garage and your Mom was tending to Matteo. Everyone thought someone else was watching you, and in no time you had snuck out of the house, behind me in the garage and out to the front yard to find Popa. Very dangerous! Whereas a week prior we'd probably be talking to you and keeping track of your whereabouts, now we have to coordinate who's watching you. We're also installing some door latches to make it easier on your Mom when it's just you, Matteo and her when I'm at work. 

Your Grammie and Popa are leaving tomorrow to drive back to Indiana. You read that right: DRIVE. West coast people like yourself like to fly places to save time. Midwest people like your Mom and grandparents like to drive, take their time and see the sights. Crazy, I know. They are heading south from here to the Oregon coast and on to the Redwoods before heading back east. 

You've been a crank-pot the last couple weeks and showing signs of the "terrible twos." You have stronger opinions of what you want and don't want, whether it's a game, clothes, music, or food. I think your legs have grown a couple inches, which explains the crankiness and long naps. Growing up is hard work. 

You're getting smarter with the days. You can sing your entire ABCs without error and identify most of the letters at random. You can also count to 15, though you usually skip from four to nine and then rattle off the teens. Your favorite song right now is "Wheels on the Bus," and you can sing on time and know all the steps in the song. 

You're a bit of an adrenaline junkie. You love fast motions like swinging and spinning around. I've taken advantage of that and started to take you on jogs with Greta. I appreciate it because I could use the exercise. You squeal with delight when we start running because you hold the leash (attached to the stroller) and think you're getting Greta to run fast ahead.

Greta has become your buddy. You like to feed her and always look up and say "One more scoop" in between scoops of dog food. If Greta has gained some weight, it's credit to your consistent overfeeding. You like to lean over and give her hugs and have started to give her commands like "come here" and "back up." You have quite the stern tone and sound like a little general.

You are pushing your athleticism. You like climbing the rocks at the Ruston spray park and run all over the yard, falling often. Your knees have constant "boo-boos," but you're a tough kid and brush it off. You have an impressive arm throwing arm, just like your Mom, and can throw a tennis ball overhand at my chest from 6 feet away. We got you a balance bike and you're starting to get the hang of pushing and steering. 

Seeing little Matteo reminds us that you are no longer a baby. We talk about how he reminds us of you and how much fun we've had with you these two years, growing from a baby into a little girl. When Matteo was born, I wondered how we've affected your life. Most people would say parenting is selfless but I'd argue it's just as selfish because you bring children into an uncertain world and, with siblings, you create new, unsolicited relationships. No one asked you if you wanted a brother! As you'll observe through life, not all siblings get along well. I hope you two will because you'll always have a common upbringing and the longest relationship in each other's lives. That's pretty special.

You're already benefitting from having a brother because it's creating more time for you and me to hang out. A couple days ago, I got to take you to the Proctor library for story time so your Mom could stay home with Matteo. I've never done that before because I'm usually working. It was fun to see you know the routine of songs and try to get me to play along. We turned the day into a date, grabbing coffee and donuts afterward.

I look forward to a lot more dates, and you can thank Matteo for that. 

Love, Dad

Dear Eliza, 20 Months Old

Dear Eliza, 

This is likely the last letter I'll write to you while you're an only child. It better be. 

We saw your brother on an ultrasound yesterday, and he is big -- 97th percentile across the board. He's probably 7.5 pounds already with a month to go. The doctor kept saying, "He's definitely on the bigger side" and "I'm sure he won't be an 11-pound baby." None of these statements encourage your Mom. We were already excited to meet him, but now we're hoping to meet him ASAP.

At points in your life you will think and occasionally say aloud, "Why couldn't I be an only child?" Being an oldest sibling, the answer is, "You were."

And I hope you enjoyed the time. I think you did. I did.

About a year after you were born, your Mom and I started discussing if we wanted to have more children: Do we want you to have a sibling? What's the impact of spreading our resources more? What is the vision for the size of our family? Does your Mom want to be pregnant again, and up to what age? What about the frozen embryos that we have left from IVF?

We hadn't entirely answered all of those questions by the time we learned we were pregnant with your brother, which is 100% how life always works. We didn't really need to. We are already enrolled in being parents, we're just deciding our major. 

Naturally our concerns now are how we share our attention and how you'll adapt in the near term. I think you'll be OK. You recently chucked a baby doll across the room and giggled, so we just need to work on your baby handling or a much more evil laugh. 

Here's the way I think about having another child: It won't take any love away from you. The capacity for love simply grows.

It's not unlike when we became parents. I didn't love your Mom any less when you arrived to make room in my heart for you. I loved your Mom even more just as I immediately loved you. Isn't that something? Now I'll get to watch you embrace being a big sister and love you for that, too. You're already helping out by taking more of an interest in potty training and proving to be a great negotiator, bartering for an M&M at every step of using the potty. 

Our attention will spread raising another kiddo. We won't grow eyes in the back of our head to watch you both. Thank goodness for that because I'd have to keep my hair very short to keep the hair out of my back-eyes. 

What I can promise is that the important stuff will still happen for you. We'll still read books at night. We'll still play on the patio when the weather is nice and get you on a balance bike soon. We'll still eat meals together, just with another messy family member at the table. I'll still write you letters on the 10th of each month. 

Do you know what we're most motivated by in this last month of pregnancy? You. That's why every night before bed we say, "Dear Lord, please watch over Eliza as she sleeps, and we pray that her brother is as smart and healthy as she is." 

Love, Dad

Dear Eliza, 19 Months Old

You will occasionally hear from new parents about how impressed they are with their own children. Every new thing is treated as a scientific achievement, and parents wonder aloud if their children are advanced for their age, or they hope so. Grandparents entertain it. Aunts and uncles tolerate it. The rest of the world finds it a breed of annoying.

I call this phenomenon "baby goggles."

When you're drinking in your 20s (and not earlier) you will occasionally get "beer goggles" that blur the world and people into something more attractive than they are in a sober state. In your 30s (and maybe earlier), if you have children, you'll find that beer goggles become baby goggles, making you see everything your baby does as extraordinary. Ideally, there's no direct correlation between beer goggles and an outcome that results in baby goggles.

Well, we have the baby goggles on right now because we are so impressed by how friggin' smart you are.

This is the point where grandmothers keep reading, Aunt Nina gets distracted with her own kid, and all of my friends bounce to see what else is in their news feeds.

Out of nowhere you are connecting possessive phrases and correlating people and places and objects. It's crazy. Some of your new favorite phrases include: "Daddy work" (when I'm teaching upstairs or actually at work), "Daddy home" (when I get home from work, or phrased as a question), Greta home (when we're away), "Mommy [eye] glasses," "water please," and "Hold you Mommy" (when you want to be held). So cute.

You've also become obsessed with warm milk, aka lattes. Just tonight you connected "latte please hot." That was a little out of order, but better than I order a coffee at Starbucks. It was news to me that you're starting to order hot or iced drinks. I guess the weather is warming up so it makes sense to specify.  

And you are spending plenty more time outside as the days are getting longer. It's a good thing because your Mom is getting super preggers. When you're outside, you're more independent and don't need to be held as much as you burn energy in the sun. Mom has also found super-human pregnancy strength as she's in full nesting mode getting the house ready for your brother and the yard ready for a "sprinkle" baby shower this weekend. She's spent the couple weeks running around and doing things she doesn't need to, like mowing the lawn and pressure washing the patio. I did my share of voluntary chores, staining the fence and digging up sod to reset the yard borders -- and getting a massage. My back hurt after all that work, OK?

You aren't holding up your share of responsibilities, but you are expressing more personality as you jog around the yard chasing Greta and jumping between conversations with us.

You complain when your hair isn't up and gets in your eyes. You brush it aside ineffectively as it feathers back in your face. You have a preference in your clothing and like to wear hats and sunglasses. The style looks a little like you're dodging paparazzi in LA, but it works. You do you. 

You love reading a version of "Hush Little Baby," which you call "Hush." Sometimes you let us read and sing it to you, but a lot of the time you ask to be left alone and flip through the pages.

You take time mastering small challenges. Tonight you spent all dinner trying to drink sparking water out of a regular plastic cup. You did well and hardly spilled by the end of it -- and had a very wet diaper. When you come across a new stair height or gap in sidewalk around the neighborhood, you'll walk up and down it until you feel you've got the hang of it. Only then you will move on. 

I'll be curious to see where that dedication to mastery takes you in life. It may be the baby goggles talking, but I bet really far.

Love, Dad

Dear Eliza, 18 Months Old

Dear Eliza,

I know these letters are about your age milestones, but I'm turning the tables. A couple weeks ago I turned 34, concluding my "Jesus year." I called it that because Jesus did a lot of amazing things when he was 33. While I knew I wouldn't live up to that standard I figured it would be an amazing year anyway. 

(I had also thought up a brilliant, Jesus-themed birthday party when I turned 33 -- fish, water, wine, sandals, long hair, etc. -- but figured that would be frowned upon by the Almighty.)

The year turned out spectacular. We vacationed in Hawaii and Italy. That's not going to happen often. I also returned to Italy a couple months later for work. We found out you're having a little brother! At work, I got a promotion and leadership award. I was able to get more good people good jobs, too. All these things make Dad happy.

Among the many things that Jesus did that Dad didn't in his 33rd year was perform truly selfless acts. Jesus went so far as dying for our sins. I got along fine with the Romans when I was overseas, but I am going to make this next year more about being selfless. I could argue that I already spend a lot of time helping out others, but sometimes there's a collateral effect so I benefit or am recognized. I've had my share of that recently. 

We're on vacation right now in Encinitas, Calif., and I've been reflecting on a couple concepts during downtime: presence and fulfillment. It's a trick of the mind to feel fleeting fulfillment (alliteration!) when you're busy or achieving a lot of things, but that can be also create distractions and prevent you from enjoying the moment and company you're with.

Maybe it's because I'm a little older and wiser, but I've found that when I help out other people, I feel a lot better myself and am naturally more present. So here's to more of that in the next year. 

Speaking of presence, you're currently fighting a nap and rattling off a lot of your new phrases:

• "Mommy go?" -- As in "Where did Mommy go?" usually followed by fake crying
• "Me too" -- In general agreement
• "Pool whee" and "Beach whee" -- Suggesting to go places that are more fun than taking a nap
• "Hap birf'd you" -- One of your favorite songs that you usually like to sing to your cousin Harry
• "News doo doo Elmo" -- Short for "I want to watch 'Elmo's World' on the same screen that you old people watch local news."

How about you do Dad and Mom a solid and take a nap? I guarantee that by helping us you'll wake up feeling a lot better yourself. See how that works?

Love, 
Dad