Luna and Estella, one month old

Luna and Estella turned one month old tonight. Their birthday was a August 18, 2009. They've made it about 31 days.

The pictures here are from tonight. Both of them are strapped into their breathing devices. Luna opened here eyes wide. This was right after a bath. There was a teeny glint of life, of passion, in her right eye. She seemed to be staring straight at me, and there was something, I think, inquisitive about it, a bold frank childish curiosity.

I don't know how well they perceive things. I can't picture myself in their isolettes, their little translucent boxes, these giant hands constantly handling them, these faces peering over them every so often, sometimes murmuring; and every once in a while, one of them takes you out and places you against her bare chest and holds you for hours, slowly rocking you.

I decided, tonight, to get a feel for what Jenny must feel when she is holding the girls. After Stella had enjoyed a sponge bath, I asked the nurse if I could hold her. The nurse said sure and wrapped Stella in a small blanket and passed her to me. And, for the first time in my life, I held my third daughter.

I was struck immediately by her weight. I don't know what I'd expected. But she has heft. She has substance. She is is not made of tissue. She is there, more solid than I guess I'd thought. I cradled her head in one hand and her body in the other and held her close to my chest. Her eyes were wide, wide open; I wished my eyes were cameras. I had not seen her open her eyes so wide. I brought her a tad closer to my face. She blinked. She moved her eyes, the darkest blue you can imagine, within their sockets. I just looked at her and felt, very distinctly, that she was looking back at me, and that was a powerful moment, however ambiguous in truth or not.

I think for me, more than any other moment in this long process, that moment of holding her, which stretched on for several minutes, cut deep into me. I felt in tune with something that I should have been feeling for weeks. I'm not saying I haven't felt like her father until now. No it's something different, something more palpable in the act of holding, of touching, of being that close to her, of feeling her exact weight, of seeing her gaze. I think it was, purely, the physical sensation of being a father, not so much the emotional one, and that moved me so much that I was afraid I'd drop her. When it came time for the nurse to take her back, I knew I had to flee the joint. I thanked her profusely, then turned and said good-bye. I felt light. I felt dazed. I played the image of her sweet blue eyes over and over in my mind. There is a chance we will make it through this, but the shape of it all, the outcome, will be nothing like what I've imagined, or what I'm capable of imagining, and I'll be wholly changed. I felt lucky, changed, alone and free. I felt alive.