Your Father's Keep “It’s okay for you to sleep You are safe in your father’s keep. Nestled into my arms gentle and still; my baby newborn. More thankful for you I could not be so I will stay just within reach. I will keep you safe from hurt and harm I’ll watch over you late night and early morn’. Remember you are safe in your father’s keep so it’s okay for you to sleep.” Honoring my son, Imriel Aster Bridgewater, born September 9, 2023 Watch & listen to me read the poem here
I write this piece on September 30th, 20203: The day that marks the completion of my son’s third week of life.
I’m beginning to forget a time before him. From the moment I caught him as he entered the world outside the womb, my heart has swelled with a love. Everyday since has been filled with pride, joy, and frustration.
I’d been told that fatherhood is unimaginably fulfilling, and what was once unimaginable is now a source of pride. In the short time I’ve spent with him, I’ve come to know my son. When he calls to me, I listen. I recognize his cues for hunger, comfort, “potty,” and digestion support.
When he cries for comfort and falls asleep in my arms, I beam. When he cries for the “potty” and I help him in time, I’m thankful I understood his bawls. Often, he needs his mother, and sometimes, he just needs to burp.
We have a connection, my son and I, and I look forward to nurturing it as we continue getting to know each other.
The pride I feel to be his father comes with a joy unlike any joy I had known before him. A few times a day, my son offers my wife and I gift: An unmistakeable open-mouthed gummy infant smile.
They don’t last longer than a few seconds, and when they’re gone, we can’t say when we’ll see one again, but time stops for a moment when I see his newborn happiness and I’m reminded of my fortune to be his dad.
Is he happy to be full? To have the love and sustenance of his mother? To be alive? Whatever the reason is, I hope he keeps smiling.
I do my best to appreciate the pride and joy because they are joined by a new sense of frustration, a discontent that grows with each day of fatherhood.
It doesn’t come from the disrupted sleep or the juggling of new responsibilities. I’m frustrated because I can’t spend as much time with my son as I want to - I need to work.
I find myself daydreaming of the days, maybe a hundred thousand years ago, when my wife and I would have raised him in a forest and spent our time running from wild predators, collecting berries, and sleeping under the stars.
If I had more time, I’d give my son all of my attention, especially in these formative months. Think of how different the world would be if parents had more time for their children in their transition from womb to world - how many diapers alone could be kept out of landfills, decreasing waste substantially and creating a better future for our children, if more of us set a strong foundation for “natural infant hygiene?”
But today, I need to pay taxes.
I’m choosing to focus on the pride and the joy, and not let the frustration cloud this special time with my little one.
So I’ll rock my son to sleep, take all the smiles I can get, and continue adding to my life’s toolbox. I love my son, and in my keep he will stay.
To celebrate our son’s birth, we’re offering 50% off all classes from the How to Grow School through October 10th.
We created the How to Grow School to make our personal growth resources more accessible to individuals. Our company's mission is to empower individuals so we can cultivate & live in a world of strong communities and healthy environments. This is the world we want our son to grow up in, and we believe our classes are a way to achieve that mission.
No code needed; the classes have already been marked down.
Every class gets you access to the HTG Community, which includes live virtual meet-ups with me + other students.
I am crying—I am so touched by your poem and prose. I’m pregnant with my first, so this is a very relevant piece. Your baby is blessed to have a father like you. I know that very well, as someone with an absent father. It’s a hole that can never be filled.