It's 11:28 p.m. and outside, I can hear a train whistle sounding in the distance. I'm sitting downstairs in my favorite recliner ("the man chair," I call it), with my son in my lap, his head on my knees and his feet about waist level on me.
He fell asleep to one of my favorite Miles Davis albums - "Kind of Blue" - playing on my laptop. As he sleeps, I'm re-reading James Lee Burke's "In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead." Jude is upstairs asleep and other than my man Miles playing quietly, the house is silent. Across the room, one of our cats, Mini, is curled up, asleep, on the ottoman.
It's funny, but this is kind of what I hoped fatherhood, or at least part of it, would be like. When John Patrick is sleeping, like he is now, and I look at the peaceful, tranquil expression on his face, I can't help but think Jude and I are going to be able to handle being parents, after all. Of course, I'm already dreading the day (and it's coming soon), when he will be too big to lay comfortably in my lap, late at night, and sleep.
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