Don’t think I don’t remember it.
I was excited. I was overjoyed. I was crying. I was more emotional than I’ve ever been in my life.
It was February 6th. Super bowl weekend.
Your mom and I had been through childbirth class. We knew everything we needed to know.
We thought we did, anyway.
Remember the conversation we had? Well, it was more of a one-way conversation. It was when I was pushing your cart thing to the nursery for the first time.
Remember what I said to you?
“I promise I’m going to try my best to never let you down. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. But I’m going to try.”
I cried. Again.
You taught me everything. I learned how to give a baby a bath. I learned that people mix Thanksgiving dinner into one mushy concoction and sell it. And you’d eat it. I started getting excited about things that would have never excited me before. Every day with you was a new learning experience. It still is.
I learned about a Boppy. Your mom used the crap out of that thing. I wish I had invented that. I remember laying on the couch, using it as an actual pillow. Tremendous neck support that thing had.
You went to four different day care centers. You were the wandering nomad of toddlers. We never really found our groove there. But you eventually landed in a preschool program. And then, you “graduated.”
Remember when I did the “tootie tot” dance with you? I was on the front row. There were refreshments. That blue cap and gown that’s still hanging in your closet to this day? That’s where that came from.
Releasing you into Kindergarten, I was afraid. Again, I had never done it before. I didn’t know anything about it. I don’t really remember anything about the time when I was in Kindergarten. But you handled it like a champ. Eager. Ready. Willing. Innocent.
Since then, I’ve watched you learn to read, tie your shoes, go through two and a half years of school, play soccer, tee ball, baseball, and basketball, lose your taste for most any food that isn’t sold at McDonald’s, become a big brother (twice), and live with a spirit that is eager to grow. I’ve even watched you correct the grammar of your parents. Enough of that, by the way.
Here’s the deal: you’re just like me. This means you will fail at times. You will cry. You’re emotional, but eventually you’ll try to stick it out for the sake of others. You’ll have to be the strong one. When you’re alone, you’ll want companionship. Once you find it, you won’t know what to do with it. It’ll take some figuring out, but you’ll get it.
Don’t think you’re ever too old to give your dad a kiss. If that happens, I’ll make sure to make a spectacle of it in front of people. Just saying.
You’ll stumble, but as God is my witness, as long as I’m around, I’ll catch you. And when you’re old enough to not want me to (or when you weigh too much), I want you to know that you’ll still never fall. There’s Someone out there who loves you, believe it or not, more than me. In fact, He created you. And as sure as I am that there’s a gigantic lump in my throat right now, I believe in you. I believe in who you are. I believe in who you’ll be.
I want Jesus for you more than anything, but I also know that there are no words I can say that will ever make you “get it.” My prayer for you is that He will make Himself so evident to you through me that you’ll be left without a choice but to follow Him.
You need to know that I’m not done failing. I’m incredibly flawed. I’ll be a work in progress until I die. But you’re just like me. Sorry about that. But just like I told you that day almost 8 years ago, I promise I’m going to try my best to never let you down.
I love you.
-Daddy
Then came Christmas. Guess what I got?
