13 June 09
This letter, sent out on the occasion of our daughter's birth, was the inspiration for Sawing Wood.
Dear Friends and Family,
Wow, this is wonderful. Ada Bell Guiotto is here, born at 19:53 hours on Sunday eve the 7th of June, a full moon rising above the tufted clouds of San Francisco; all eight pounds of her, lanky, dark hair and big eyes and round cheeks and tiny flower mouth, so cute and sweet it hurts to look at her. Was a rough go at start, as the little rabbit was stuck posterior-wise for some 26 hours, until finally Anna accepted an epidural and things eased up enough for her to push la bambina forth over another two and a half hours. But all is gold and honey now. Anna is healing up and getting her color back and the sight of them lying together in bed is enough to make your eyes well up.
So things are very good. (And if you don't want to be drowned under by a wave of overly sentimental, poorly punctuated gushing, better spare yourself the soft stuff below and cut to the attached pictures. You've been forewarned; yet you're reading on.) But what strikes me is how natural all this feels. Everybody tells you how your life is going to be turned upside down by a first child, and maybe the shake up is pending, but right now all this feels as right and flowing as rain on a summer day, and no different from the other turns in my life, except that it's vastly better than all of them (and by this child and this birth I mean the continuation of my love for Anna and our life together, from that first moment we met at the book store, to these halcyon days around the house with Ada in our arms).
Perhaps the naturalness is aided by my taking a couple weeks away from carpentry and other ambitions. Nothing to do but drift about the house with my two dear ladies, taking naps, reading, gazing dumbfounded at my lovely girls, listening to records and getting all choked up looking into Ada Bell's eyes, napping some more, reading some more, falling deeper in love by the moment with my girls and sensing all the precious depth of humanity through them, another nap, a jolt of urge to clean the heck outa the kitchen and bath, then watering the plants on deck with Ada on one arm, her chirps and toy noises so impossibly cute as she gnaws on her paws and roves her long eyes up at you; or making lunch as Anna sleeps with baby, a little alone time listening to Monk on the radio with the good feeling of knowing they're nestled in the next room; or in the evenings enjoying visits and dinners with friends or mom coming by, a house call from the doctor Quock (no joke) who said the girl looks like a champ; our dear friends Jeff and Julie coming over with their sweet newborn boy Basil (conceived at our wedding in Sonoma and born just days before Ada!), all of us, perhaps after a little wine, thinking Ada smelled of vanilla and Basil of cinnamon; or at quieter times, sitting in the big arm chair with Ada and a Maugham novel and a cold beer arranged in lap, feeling content as a bird with the windows open and the sun warming the hardwood and the rattle of San Francisco and mocking birds in the air, observing how the little blossom has Anna's long eyes and maybe my nose (which Jeff joked was the cause of her getting caught in the birth canal), feeling damn happy, then feeling I've got to get everything in perfect order for her and my damn book published that we shouldn't have to worry about money and be able to live and travel and not have to sweat and swear to get through all the time, and then suddenly, bedazzled by little cooing Ada, none of those worries and nothing of the world matters one lick to me anymore, nothing but being with my girls is important and the rest of the world can slip far away for awhile for all I care; all the world except you dear friends, thinking of you and becoming excited to see you again and be together as the dear big family we are, new kids and new oldies alike, looking forward to that, looking forward to so many things yet not wanting any of this to pass, feeling all the ancient feelings of life and death and love and preciousness compressed into these serene days, feeling so glad and grateful I could sing, and sometimes do, tho it's better I leave that to the record player and the girls . . .
Love to you all,
David
