Tell her you've been thinking about names and colleges and 
bringing more Knicks fans into the world.

	Tell her you don't want to be nothing more than mommy's 
weird friend who has the same eyes, always buys the best 
birthday presents, and stares a bit too long.

	Tell her you don't want to be your father, cold and 
uncommunicative on a good day, nowhere to be found on better 
days.

	Tell her you'll give her this child, you'll give her 
as many as she wants, because you love her protocol be damned.

	Tell her that you never wanted children before her, 
never wanted the minivan and the diapers and the 2am feedings 
until she did, because there was never anyone to have them with.

	Tell her you're afraid.  Afraid to pass on your nose, 
your idiosyncrasies, your occasional insensitive attitudes.  When 
she shakes her head, smile and thank her for believing you pass 
genetic muster, corrective lenses and abduction tendencies aside.

	Tell her that she is your litmus test, your human credential.  
You are worth something because she wants you.  You are worth everything 
because she wants your child.

	Tell her that your life used to be full of promises and expectations 
and memories, until you were twelve.  That until you met her, you made no 
promises, had no expectations, wanted no memories.  What was to remember?  
Life was work ... dark, unfeeling, like an old movie reel someone forgot to 
turn off when it finished.  You were spinning futily, getting nowhere.  The 
night threatened to swallow you whole, and you didn't try to fight it.  Then 
she came into your life.  She brought her light, her head of fire, and though 
you'd been afraid of fire since you were a child, hre flame promised no harm, 
only warmth.  She would melt your ice.  You would fight her like hell, but you 
would lose.  Over the years, her flame dimmed, dancing in the wind, but never 
extinguishing, always warming you no matter what.

	Tell her she is so much more than your touchstone.  Tell her she is your 
light, your passion.  Anything good in you is her.  Anything right in you has 
become her.  She has changed your beliefs, your values.  She is everything you 
always thought you never wanted.  Sound and silence, fury and complacency, light 
and dark.  She is bendable strength.  Bendable, but never breakable.

	Tell her you will give her this baby because it is the only part of you 
not broken, the only part that can offer her a modicum of joy, of peace.  Give 
her peace, because the chaos and the noise have even begun to deafen you.  She 
deserves more ... so much more than what you've given her thus far.

	Offer her this child.  Know she will accept because it is what she's asked 
of you.  Offer her your soul, your heart, your body.  Pray she will accept, because 
it is all you have left to give.