If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!
I write letters to my infant son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:
38 Weeks Old
Dear Myles,
No one puts you to sleep faster than I do. I’ve reached a new level of prestige this month — not even the boob can test me.1 When your mother is heavy-laden and you need rest, she hands you to me, and I, the Sleep Master, gets busy.
I close the blinds, cue the rain sleep sound, and your playlist, and we rock. This isn’t some recipe or playbook just anybody can copy. People will try to copy your sauce, but they will never be able to replicate the dish.
The other day, you were fussy. I could hear you cutting up through the walls as my work meeting on the computer was wrapping up. Your mother was frustrated; I could hear her deep breaths too. Since the call was ending anyway, I went on mute and went to the living room where you both were. I gave you one look and said “he’s sleepy.” She contested, saying you weren’t.
Sometimes she forgets I’m the Sleep Master, and you and I are tapped in like the mycelium of a mushroom.2 I just know that I know when you need what you need. Your mother rolls her eyes and hands you to me, and I smile and make my way to your room. "It's 4:10; let’s see how long it takes for you to put him to sleep," she says with my back turned. She wants to bet, and the Sleep Master loves a challenge. "Say less," I say.
I do what I do: close the blinds, cue the sounds, start the playlist, and we rock. I flip you from chest to cross body, and you meet your match in 5 minutes. I send her Proof of Sleep, and she replies with laughing emojis. Defeat is funny when you lose, but this is just another day in being a Sleep Master.
Defeat is funny when you lose, but this is just another day in being a Sleep Master.
But truthfully, I don’t relish putting you to sleep. It’s sometimes a struggle, frankly — especially at night. I still can’t understand why babies fight to sleep even though they’re clearly tired. Some nights I feel like we’re swing dancing—flipping, turning, and swinging you around until you finally give in. You would think after 9 months of this routine, you would finally realize I am not the enemy; I am your father. Truthfully, I wish someone could cradle me in a onesie every night.
While my routine usually works, sometimes the Sleep Master has to dig deep into his bag of tools. I don’t know where I learned these techniques, but it feels almost ancestral to know what I know and do what I do — like your mother who never measures when she cooks, but the meal never misses.
Most nights, after I've tried every trick in my arsenal—blinds, sound, rocking, swinging, even paper, no scissors—I play my Draw Four, my Exodia. I start to sing hymns, the same two, in the exact same order, every night.
There is something special about singing a hymn over you in the dark. By the time I hit the refrain, your eyes are closed, and so are mine, yours because of sleep and mine because I’m rejoicing. This is the closest I feel to God every night. There used to be times where I could not sleep because my prayers for a child we could not conceive kept me awake.
“You're my Friend and You are my brother,
Even though You are a King.
I love You more than any other,
So much more than anything.”
But I love our mornings. Every morning, we slip into the guest room to avoid waking your mother and climb into bed. It’s against the wall so you have ample space, but you stay close to me. You look at me every morning like you are taking me in for the first time — like my wrongs, mistakes, and sins from yesterday have disintegrated. Your eyes see me for my wholeness. And I hope and wonder if this is how God sees us despite ourselves.
Your smile says you see something familiar – like I’m someone worth loving. You grab at my nose and mouth with your tiny hands, your way of communicating, your way of saying “Morning, daddy.” This must be why we are born with no language; who needs words when you are this close, that our noses nuzzle, and our eyes speak louder than any syllables and verbs could? This is our first language. This is how we first learn love – in the morning, before the sun is up, without a language one can hear, but only feel. Who needs language when love is already in full bloom?
"Give me the Bible, star of gladness gleaming, To cheer the wanderer lone and tempest tossed, No storm can hide that peaceful radiance beaming Since Jesus came to seek and save the lost."
I cannot wait for us to pray together to close the nights and open the mornings. I look forward to introducing you to the True Sleep Master, the Organizer and Creator of All Things, so we can thank Him together for these nights, mornings, and life. He brought us together before you and I were even thought of; He knew us before we even knew ourselves.
But until then, I will sing and pray over you and for you while you sleep.
Some people call Him The Universe, but in our home, we call Him God.
Love,
Daddy
While I don't rely on people paying, these letters are a labor of love. All funds collected from writing these letters go towards Myles' college savings. Consider upgrading your subscription to help ensure Myles avoids student debt like his dad.
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Let me know your thoughts:
Have you ever experienced the magic of putting a little one to sleep? Share the funny and not-so-funny moments!
What's something you used to pray or yearn for that you have now?
What's a song, hymn, quote, or verse that grounds you when you feel frustrated?
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be wrapped up and rocked in a full onesie?
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
His most recent one was From the Outside In and Inside Out
Myles met his Grandfather in Brooklyn, NY
Read about My Wife’s Love Affair - It’s exactly what you don’t think
Have you ever been Cooking in the Bathroom kind of tired?
Check out Carrying the Gift, Holding the Love
Read about Our first Father’s Day.
Actually you are being weaned off the boob - I could never compete with it.
Every time I read one of your letters, I think "Myles is so lucky!"
These letters are classic!