A Dad

What a sweet boy.  You ushered me into fatherhood so gently 4 years ago, I hardly knew it was happening to me.  I watch you lie sleeping beside me, your soft breathing marking time as you drift into your dreams of trucks and campers, thunderstorms, moms and Dads, who knows what else.  I love this time.  You are asleep, I am half awake.  I love it and yet I must leave you there in your little bed.  I have so many things to do as your Dad.  I have to go. I have to go work to make money to support you;  I have to take care of this house we bought for you;  I have to make sure your Mommy is happy and well rested.  And yet I know – I am certain – that in just a few years, years that will rush past us so quickly, I will miss these moments that are gone forever.  These 4 years have slipped by so fast, right out from under us.  One moment I was holding you in the hospital, staring into your perfect eyes, giving you your first sponge bath, helpless while you cried at the shocking air and cold and noise, but instinctively you trusted me.  Walking thru town with you strapped to my chest, alternately dozing off and listening intently as I babbled on, block after block, pouring words into your tiny ears.  Your first day of daycare when you would not let me go;  Sitting in front of your high chair in the mountains, feeding you strawberries, yogurt, reveling in each others’ company.  Being amazed at the sudden thoughts that come out of your mouth as ideas and hints and whims turn into words.  So many car trips, trading banter back and forth as we head nowhere in particular;  hundreds, maybe thousands of pages of books read to you in my lap, next to me in bed, in the car, on airplanes, outside, in our special places, sometimes barely awake to finish the story.

I know those days are slipping away from us, and I want to stop time and spend just a little longer with you now, even as I begin to tiptoe away from you sleeping there.  I know that soon I will trade almost anything in the world for just one more nap cuddled next to you.  And yet even now, at this very moment I barely acknowledge this embarrassment of riches before me. So many sweet hugs, hands held across streets and alleys, increasingly sophisticated arguments, innocent questions that stop my heart, soft brushes of your little hands across my scratchy face.  So many tiny, unrecordable, unforgettable moments slide past me that I almost don’t bother to catch them out of the air and embrace them.  I know that I should; like they are the last breaths of air I will gulp.  But life keeps rolling out in front of us. We can’t help but be swept up by it. We can’t help but underestimate our own joy in passing.  We have to live each day, even while we watch it close behind us.  

Soon you will be bigger.  You won’t need me anymore for the simple things you rely on me now. I won’t have to help you wipe your bottom.  I won’t have to help you put on your shoes. “Is this the right foot, Daddy?” You can already wash your own hands.  You’re almost riding your bicycle.  And you’re no longer terrified by big dogs, school on Monday mornings, or strangers.

I can’t help wondering what you’ll need me for then.  I know we will have amazing adventures together. We’ll learn new things together. We’ll have remarkable conversations. I’ll still teach you new things almost every day.  Maybe you’ll listen to me sometimes. I hope I’ll always listen to you.   I hope we’ll always love eating pancakes together.  I hope you’ll be the good influence on your new friends, and not the recipient of bad.  I hope you'll always giggle at my awful nonsequiturs.

I will try my best to never find our time together taxing or distracting.  It's all the other things that come along that distract me from my time with you.