When Jason was a baby and the sun got in his eyes, he would cry in pain and frustration. He would thrash around, straining against the straps of his car seat—usually this happened in the car, you see—and shout things like "No, sun! Ahhh! That hurts my eyes!" Juliette and I would explain, again and again, that he should close his eyes and look the other way, but he would stubbornly refuse.

"Just look the other way, buddy.  It won't hurt if you don't look at it."

"No!"

"Just look the othe way."

"No, it won't feel better! No!"

At which point we would calmly inform him that we were done talking about that.

After over three years of coaxing and explaining, and praising him whenever he did look away, he finally got it, and now it's not a problem anymore. Usually.

The first time I looked into my rearview and noticed the sun in Eva's eyes, she closed her eyes and turned her head. She was less than two months old.

I'd say that about sums it  up, right there.

"Daddy, I'm making these into binoculars."

"I'm making my hair beautiful."

"OK, well it's time to brush your teeth now."

"No! It's not beautiful yet!"

The difference between beautiful and disgusting can be a matter of perspective.

It's probably a good thing the door was locked.

I can't fully articulate how strange and wonderful it is to me that both of my babies have had blue eyes.

Sometimes the amount of consideration Jason can have for others—even his toys—takes my breath away.

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I'm obviously not doing a great job with the "daily" thing these days, but I'm going to try to get back in the swing of things.

"Daddy, I don't want to be in Ms. Marjan's class today."

I looked down at Jason. "What? You like Ms. Marjan. And all your friends have already moved up to her class. You're going to have so much fun being in the same class with them again."

"No, I'm not," he insisted sullenly.

I adjusted my grip on Eva's carseat/baby carrier—it was her second day at daycare, but my first day bringing her—and looked down at Jason, trying to be sympathetic but firm. "I'm sorry, buddy," I said, "But it's time for you to be in her class now. You've been getting all ready for this, and now it's time."

He didn't respond, just held my hand as we kept walking.

We were running a bit late this morning, so by the time we got to his new classroom—separated from his old "room" by just a short partition running across the space—the rest of the kids were already sitting down in their circle and the teacher was handing out little cards to each of them. We hurried to get his blanket, stuffed animal, and sweater into his cubby and then I led him over to the group.

"OK, buddy, can I have a hug?" I asked, kneeling beside him. He didn't say anything, just wrapped his little arms around my neck and buried his face into my shoulder. He didn't wail or cry out, the way he usually does when he's upset. He just hugged me tightly and sniffled a little.

I pulled away from him gently. "Look at me buddy." He lifted his teary eyes to meet mine, and I could see that he was trying to hold it together. "Jay, you're going to have a really good day. All your friends are here to play with you, and it's going to be lots of fun. You're a big boy, and you can do this."

His face screwed all up and his voice broke as he threw his arms around me again. "Daddy, I don't want you to go."

I looked down to my side where Eva was sleeping in her carrier. Jason has been a wonderful big brother, and I can see that he genuinely loves his sister. But it's hard on him, too, dealing with change over the past few months. Just last night he got out of bed an hour after I tucked him in, saying that he didn't like being all by himself in his room. I know it's because Eva sleeps in a cradle by our bed, and try as we might to explain that she needs to be in our room because she's a baby, and that she'll be moving into her own room soon, he can't grasp yet that different people have different needs. He just knows that everyone—even the dog—sleeps in Mommy and Daddy's room, except him.

All of that flashed through my mind as I knelt there holding him, and my heart just about broke. I want so much to show him that I love him just as much as I always have, and just as much as his sister. I take time to play with him, and give him as much affection as he'll let me. But right at that moment it didn't feel like I'd done enough.

A few moments passed, then the teacher called Jason over to help her. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and went over, and she shooed me away, mouthing "Have a nice day!" behind his head.

As it happened, Juliette stayed home sick today, so I was the one to pick the kids up after work. When I arrived, he was out in the yard, running around and playing happily with his little friends. He ran over as soon as he saw me, smiling.

I crouched down to look him in the eyes and smiled. "Jay Jay, can I tell you something?" I asked.

"What?"

"I love you very much, and I missed you a lot today," I said. "I thought about you all day."

He hugged me. "Me too, Daddy."

This is long overdue.

It's been an interesting experience, the last few weeks, a superposition of opposites that, oddly, makes me think of Dickens. Things have been both familiar and new, challenging and easy, fun and aggravating. It hasn't been the worst of times, of course, and I feel like maybe we are slowly finding our way toward the best of times.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The morning of September 19th—the morning of Eva's birth day—I woke up at 4:13, two minutes before the alarm went off. I stayed in bed for four more minutes, just enough time for Juliette to get up and make her way to the shower. Somehow we both managed to get cleaned up and slipped out without waking Jason up or Juliette's sister, who was there to be with him that morning while we were out. I felt guilty about leaving without telling him, but it was easier this way.

We left the house at about a quarter past five—Juliette's c-section was scheduled for 7:30 AM, but we had to arrive two hours early to fill out paperwork and get ready. (We chose for Juliette to have a c-section again rather than attempt a VBAC.) At one point during the drive, Calexico's "Close Behind" came on the radio, and I commented to Juliette that I had been listening to that song a lot right around the time Jason was born. We laughed at the coincidence, and arrived right on schedule.

By 5:51, Juliette was in bed and had the fetal monitors on. We got three texts in the next two minutes, the most interesting of which was from her sister: "Suck on your saliva." (Juliette hadn't had anything to eat or drink in about eight hours by then, and she was very thirsty.)

Then we waited. For the next two and a half hours we talked and looked at our phones and wondered how much longer it would be. At some point, the nurse came in and told us that another woman had needed to have an emergency c-section, so we would have to wait until the operating room became available. That was, of course, just fine with us—we could wait, which in and of itself was striking considering how much pain Juliette had been in when we arrived at the hospital for Jason's birth. So we waited. 7:30 came and went. We checked our phones a lot. I took a lot of inane pictures, like this one:

Our turn finally came at 8:25, at which point the nurses had Juliette out of the room and wheeling down the hall almost before I knew what was going on. As we passed through the doorway, Juliette exclaimed, "Mike, look!" I followed her finger to the sign beside the door, discovering that our LDR room had been dedicated to someone named Eva Hough.

I should back up a second and explain something. You see, until that moment, we didn't really know what our daughter's name would be. Just as we had with Jason, Juliette and I had come up with a short list of possible first name-middle name combinations that we liked, but after that we wanted to wait until we saw what she looked like. "Eva" was on that list, but so were three other names. Now, I don't really believe in signs or fate, but when we saw that sign, we both just knew.

Just a few moments later, we were at the operating room door. Juliette was wheeled directly in, while a nurse politely directed me to wait there and said someone would come get me when they were ready to begin.

And then I was by myself.

I don't want to make more of this than it's worth, because as tense and anxious as I felt while I waited outside that operating room, I wasn't the one about to be sliced open. I wasn't the one being handled by a bunch of strangers. I wasn't the one being poked and pinched to see if my spinal was working yet. (It never did fully kick in, but I'm getting ahead of myself again.)

So, yes, I know that I had the easier part, but that doesn't mean it was easy for me. I had thought that having gone through this once before it might be easier this time. The thing is, watching your wife go into surgery—even a routine, well-understood, everyday kind of surgery—is not easy. I paced and fidgeted, rubbing my thumbs across the fuzz on the inside of my mask. I took pictures of everything: the walls, the doors, my hands, the scrub basin, the blanket that lined what would be my daughter's first cradle. I massaged my palms to keep my fingers from clenching. I gave thin smiles to the nurses and doctors that walked in and out of the OR. And I looked at the door a lot, wondering what was going on inside as the minutes ticked by.

The door was, as doors often are, uncommunicative.

They finally let me in at two minutes to nine. Juliette was stretched out on the table, a sheet of blue fabric separating us from her belly. She looked up at me when I came in and gave me a smile that I imagine was meant to be as reassuring as the ones I had just flashed the doctors, and was just as unsuccessful as mine probably were. I sat down beside her and took her hand. I don't remember much about the next few moments—I don't know what we said to each other, and I don't remember exactly when they started cutting. I do remember Juliette's eyes alternately widening and clenching shut, and the way she sounded as she gasped in pain. I do remember telling her "You're doing great," and the way her brow furrowed as she shook her head in response. I remember the way she gripped my hand tightly, and how her hand felt in mine as I squeezed back, and how her hair felt under her cap as I stroked her head and tried—and failed—to comfort her. It wasn't supposed to be this way—it hadn't been this way the last time—but something about the shape of Juliette's vertebrae was making the spinal ineffective.

I had told myself that I was not going to look behind the screen this time. I had looked when Jason was born, and the sight of Juliette's stomach cut open and the doctor's fingers inside her, pushing muscle fibers aside, was too much for me—I still can't think about it without getting emotional. But I had also been able to see Jason's head pop out, and somehow the need to do the same, to bear witness to my daughter's first moments, was more important than my desire to save myself the trauma of seeing my wife's insides. So I looked, just in time to see the doctor do something and a gush of what must have been amniotic fluid—but looked a lot like blood—come splashing out of the incision. I looked away, then forced myself to look again a few seconds later and saw Eva's head slip out of the hole in Juliette's stomach. What a strange thing it is, to see something at once so wonderful and so terrible.

The doctor began to push the baby out, and Juliette moaned. I turned back to her and put my hand on her forehead. I think I told her it was almost over. And then it was over, and the doctor lifted our daughter up above the screen and showed her to us.

And in that moment, I didn't see the blood dripping off her, or how pale and gray her skin was. Just then, what I noticed was how much deeper and louder her voice was than Jason's had been, and how much stronger her cries were. Funny, where your mind will go at the biggest moments of your life.

It was 9:05. The whole ordeal, which Juliette and I would both have sworn was at least half an hour, if not longer, was actually just seven minutes. The nurses took Eva—by then we both knew that that was her name—over to another table to wipe her off and wrap her up. I hesitated; I needed to be with my daughter, and I needed to be with my wife, and I didn't know which one I could stand to abandon. Fortunately, Juliette is more clear-headed than I am—she told me to go and be with our new girl.

And, boy, she was angry. Not that I can blame her, of course, being pulled from a safe, warm environment where she could be lulled by her mother's heartbeat into a cold, stark, brightly lit hospital room. Again, I was struck by how much more powerful her lungs were than her brother's had been at his birth—and at the time, I had been impressed with his pipes, too. The nurses wiped her down and presented the cord for me to cut, then wrapped her up and put a hat on her, and I brought Eva to meet her mother for the first time on the outside.

I wish I could remember what Juliette said just then, to me or to Eva, but it's gone now. What I do remember is marvelling at how much like my grandfather Eva looked. "You're definitely a Sakasegawa," I told her.

Just a few minutes later, Eva was in her little hospital bassinet, and I was wheeling her down the hall to the waiting room where Jason was sitting with Juliette's parents and sister.

"Hi buddy!" I greeted him. "I have someone for you to meet!"

"Is that Tinkerbell?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's your sister!" I responded. "Her name is Eva."

Jason stood up on his tiptoes and peered into the bassinet. "I like her," he declared.

Eva Akemi Sakasegawa, born September 19, 2011 at 9:05 AM. 7 lbs, 9 oz; 19.5 inches long. It's probably not going to last, but so far she's been a lot calmer and more easy-going than her brother was at the same age. She and Jason already get along great.

More details and photographs will follow in the next few days. Thanks, everyone.

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Nikon D7000, Nikkor 50mm f/1.4G
f/2, 1/320, ISO 800