Happy Birthday, Son

A Dad's Muse

The car lurched backwards out of the driveway. The tires squealed against the pavement as I threw her into Drive and stepped on the gas. Alice’s eyes blazed fire. Her words came slow, deliberate, and firm,”Slow this down. Don’t get us killed on the way to the hospital.” I took my foot off the gas – a little bit.

Two hours later I was holding Logan Nash, wrapped in a white blanket, cradled gingerly in my arms. I had been there through the whole birth and hadn’t fainted or lost control or been overwhelmed with fear. I had just let Alice squeeze may hand as she pushed through a kind of pain that I couldn’t even imagine. Now, though, looking at the precious little baby in my arms, the tears were streaming down my cheeks. That was thirty four years ago.

Fatherhood is the greatest gift that God has ever given man. Those fortunate enough to play the role don’t always appreciate it. Some feel burdened. Some are lost in confusion. Some just want to play the role better than their old man. Some wonder how they could be so blessed. Some don’t know what to do with that little thing in their arms. Most are scared to death that they will get it wrong. All of that went through my mind in those earliest hours – while I was introducing Logan to his grandparents and big sister.

Mothers, especially after the first one, feel the connection right from the start. For fathers, I believe it is when those precious eyes begin to recognize you, when that unconscious joy starts to dance in their eyes. They don’t know what to call you yet or who you are but they sense that connection, that love, that dedication. When they first say “Da-da” you are a lost man and, by then, most men recognize that they will never take another breath or live another moment the same way again. Thirty four years ago today, that journey began for me.

I write this as I reflect on the decades of life that have passed since those early hours of July 22, 1992.

I write this as an older man who moves slower, hurts more, and is more grounded in the sad realities of life. The dreams have mostly burned out and the end of my earthly ride is closer than I want to acknowledge. I am saddened because the specific memories that I thought would always be etched in my memory in living color now, after all of these years, seem to run together – a beautiful running reel of laughter, love, joy, triumph, pain, confusion, and pride. The memories are still there but they are snap shots streaming together, blurred and faded by age, robbed in some ways of context, but so much a part of your soul that that they help define you in these late hours of life.

Sipping my bourbon on the eve of that special day, I am haunted by the things I got wrong as a Dad while smiling at the things I got right. Such is the role of a mortal man who had the blessed opportunity to be a Dad. Most of us who have had that blessing realize, and forgive, ourselves for being mortal men, just doing the best we could given the circumstance and age we lived in. We will, in our silent moments, cringe at the times we lost our temper or were, simply, just too hard on our kids. We will also, however, smile to ourselves when we see the lessons we taught, the examples we set, and the values we modeled reflected in the adults those precious bundles have become.

When my kids were young, I probably didn’t take enough pictures or videos. Perhaps, I am regretting that now but my younger self wanted to be a part of the moment – not behind a video camera trying to capture every moment for prosperity. It was the right decision then but, perhaps, I am regretting it now. However, video cameras were a gift to our generation, a gift not know by those who came before and there is a part of me that believes that it how it was meant to be. Perhaps we were meant to sit with our bourbon and try to separate the flashing images into precious moments in time.

Regrettably, Logan’s young life was marred by the divorce of his parents. He lived with me alone for a few years when it became him and me against the world. Then he had to adjust to a step-mom, new living arrangements, and a general upheaval of his world. He doesn’t remember the days when I felt like we got it right most of the time, when the laughter bounced off the walls of our home, when love seemed to blanket our lives regardless of what the world threw at us, or when I got it right more often than I got it wrong.

When the gray colors your hair and the muscles don’t cooperate like they once did, you can truly beat yourself to death with the past mistakes but a wise man just nods, understanding that he never intentionally caused the hurt, confusion, or doubt in his children. He just was slugging his way through life, probably not turning to God as often as he should have, while still planting just enough seeds to set them up for ultimate success in life.

So, sitting here tonight, I remember those early moments. I recall the love in an infant’s eyes, can still hear that first “Dada”, and often relive teaching him to ride his bicycle without training wheels. I remember backyard croquet games with Grandma and Grandpa, our first solo camping trip, golfing together through the years, bedtime stories, the tickle monster, laser tag parties with his friends, and countless, “I love you’s” through the years.

I wish I could relive those years, could recapture the memories more vividly. However, that is not how the Game of Life is played. So I look at Logan Nash today and am filled with pride. Like most young men of these times, he hasn’t arrived yet. He struggles against economic factors not known in our lives since the Great Depression while trying to navigate through an age where most of our traditional cultural mores and expectations have been, unfortunately, upended by folks who hate our country and our values. However, when I look at him, I celebrate where he is and who he is. The seeds were planted, haphazardly tended to, but always cherished. Now, they have taken hold and the adult is ready for the challenges that lie ahead.

Thirty four years ago, I tenderly cradled a baby in my arms. Today, I take pride in looking at a young man and saying, “Happy Birthday, son.”