I don’t know what it means to be a father. I’m not sure I care. What I know is what it means to be a mother.

I don’t know what it means to have an accidental child. My children were built out of purpose and intention. My children exist because I wanted to learn from them. My children exist because I wanted to see them. My children exist because I need teachers that cannot be stolen from me.

My children are about my own selfishness. And yet they aren’t.

My children are about me having something to give.

My children are about me and yet they aren’t… not even a little.

My children are about continuation that has nothing to do with me. I am not important. The continuation is important. In medias res. This story will continue without me.

Blood of my blood. Bond of my bone. Child, I love you. What is love. Love is the feeling that I would crawl across broken glass if you needed a ride upon my back. Love is the feeling that I would swim directly towards a shark if that would give you a few moments of freedom to swim towards safety. Love is that feeling that I would destroy myself to guarantee you one second of delight.

Love is knowing that any resource, any anything I have is better spent in your hands. Because you are more important.

You are the gift that I give myself. All of my children are gifts from my past self. See, if you survive you get to meet these people. These glorious, bright, wonderful people. My first two children were the gifts of beauty that I get to look at. This third child is the gift of my spirit. The gift of charm of suavity I get to experience.

Child, I want to meet you.

“What is an angel”

An angel is the spirit of that which was, and that which is, and that which can be again. An angel is you.

Transformation. Becoming. Change.

When I think of the stream of children coming, I think of you. When I think of the future, I think of you.