I have a friend who has one of these blogs, or on line journal, or whatever you want to call it. Besides various false starts I haven’t kept a journal since my freshman year in college. I’ve been meaning to. I even read that book “The Artist’s Way”. Well, I read parts of it. I tend to start alot projects that never get completed. So I have decided to dip my toe in the water of this internet revolution and start my own journal.
My son is the one inspiring me to do this. Although he doesn’t know that. He’s only 17 months old. I’ve thought for sometime that I would like a record of my thoughts and feelings on raising him and the times he grew up in. I picture the two of us, after he is grown and contemplating children of his own, sitting by a fire in a log cabin with snow falling outside and some whiskey in a highball glass reminiscing about his childhood…sorry…a little sappy…it will probably happen again.
The inspiration took hold this past weekend. My wife was in Chicago visiting friends. This left Cody and I alone for an all boy’s weekend. Now don’t think I hadn’t taken care of my son by myself before. I am quite accomplished at handling him on my own. A whole weekend with the boy was going to be awesome (Awesome? I really need to work on my adjectives). Needless to say it was exactly that. I simply love being with my son. I miss him whenever he isn’t around (sort of makes working a bit tiresome). It is the greatest joy in my life to watch him grow up. I wince with every fall, laugh with every joy and revel in each new discovery he makes. it is truly a gift, especially in these current times, to have the opportunity to see the world through his eyes. Everything is new and uncorrupted.
An open letter to my son at 17 months:
Cody, I love you little man. I hope I can be the father you need me to be. I had an incredible time with you for 4 days while your mother was away. We had dinner with Mr. Raven at Tyler’s, we had breakfast at Elmo’s diner, we hit some neighborhood yard sales, took Lucy to the park, paid a visit to Grandma and Pop-Pop Berberian and had some Goodberry’s custard to top it all off. In between were several diaper changes, many naps, books, music and laughter. I have to make one confession here. On Monday you went to Parent’s Morning Out for the first time. You were only supposed to stay an hour. Sort of a warm up visit. I dropped you off and headed to Fowler’s for some coffee and a bagel comfortable in the knowledge that I would see you again in an hour before I headed to Charlotte for my commercial shoot (Bojangle’s commercial with Jeff Gordon). When I returned to gather you up your class was just making it’s way to the playground. Before you could see me your teacher said you were doing so well you could stay another hour. Another hour? I had to get to Charlotte. Nana could pick you up, I guess. But I wouldn’t get to see you before I left. Then you waddled out, as only a 17 month old can, the door to the playground. You didn’t see me. Independent little man that you are you adjusted to your surroundings and looked quite happy being just exactly where you were. I called Nana and she agreed to pick you up. However, I couldn’t quite find it in me to leave just yet. I stood by the car, out of sight, and watched you play. I wondered if any of the kids on the playground would wind up being your friend. I wondered what kind of kid you would grow up to be. I wondered if I was ever going to be able to pull myself away. Seems that even letting go a little bit is going to be harder for your old man then it will be for you. I cried a little on the way home. Irrational, I know. You were content. Still, I was going to miss you. Learn one thing fast buddy. Your Dad is a sap when it comes to you and your mom. Can’t help it. Won’t apologize for it. Love you little man. Dad.
P.S. As soon as I got home I got a call from your teacher. Seems you’d fallen off a little plastic tricycle and landed face first on the cement. Told them not to worry you fall down all the time. You got quite a knot on your forehead and a scrape on your nose and upper lip. Mom says the scratch looks like a Hitler moustache. She’s taken to calling you her little Hitler baby. That’s pretty funny. Politically incorrect, but funny all the same. Take my word for it.
