My son. There, I’ve said it.
It’s been an intense week since you joined us. This is the first time I’ve had a few minutes to write.
Your mother and I agonized over your name for nine months. Agonized is too light a word. We diseased about it. Yes, that’s better. DISEASED. That’s what we did. We both wanted different names for different reasons. But all the names we thought of didn’t suit you one iota once you came into the world and looked at us, and we looked at you, and you looked at us, and we looked at you. In the end [or, as far as you're concerned, the beginning] we agreed on Yonatan, because it’s the name that suits you most. You are a Yonatan, you have been given to us by God.
The truth is – and we’ll always strive to tell the truth to each other – that in my diseasing I even thought of calling you Yoda, because that’s just me, and you look like a little Yoda [minus the green], and you’re as strong and collected as he is.
Do you see it?
But alas, cooler heads prevailed.
So maybe not everyone thinks you look like the Grand Jedi Master whose wisdom has shaped your father’s life, but you do have your father’s body.
Anyway, you’ve been sleeping really well, relatively speaking; getting up every few hours to eat. You don’t cry when you’re hungry – you grunt, snort and squeal. Your mom is much more sensitive to your middle-of-the-night audio signals than I am, but once she wakes me up, I’m up, relatively speaking. She now sleeps so lightly. When I met your mother, she was quick to slumber and was a heavy sleeper! Now the slightest signal from you wakes her. It’s incredible, scientific, mystical, biological. Female. Maternal.
Now we take turns feeding and changing you at night and I’d just like to thank you for being such a gentleman about it all.
At work during the day I walk around like a zombie in love: Dead tired but elated. And I can’t wait to get your little hands around my finger. My little Babywan Kanobi. My little Jedi. We’re besotted with you; every little part of you.