Today was my son Grant's first day of kindergarten. It wasn't an emotional day for me or him. My wife even made it through the drop-off and pictures without getting worked up. Katie was a little disturbed Grant didn't get back in the car and leave with us, but she's 2.
After we left the school, I drove to an event and had some time in the car to soak in the significance of the day. Five years has gone by quick. My boy is growing up. Now he's in school. Before you know it, he'll be in college. My, how strange time is, no?
As I remembered the day he was born and his first tooth and all the other little milestones along the way, I thought about how scared I was to become a father. I captured that in a blog post on my old version of this blog. So in celebration of making it five years and getting my son off to more capable educators, I dug up this number I wrote just 10 days before Grant was born in March of 2005.
Enjoy
The house is ready, but am I?
3/11/05
The nursery is finished. The crib is built. All the clothes sized for newborns are washed with the special detergent for such articles. There are shelves full of stuffed animals and colorful toys. The cradle my mother once used to rock me to sleep is along side our bed with a music-playing mobile clamped to one end.
The cabinet that used to contain stadium cups and water bottles is now lined with neat rows of plastic baby bottles in various sizes. The rack that used to contain earth-toned pot holders is now draped with lightly colored bibs.
I even opened the hall closet yesterday and was conveniently buried by eight Sam's Club-sized boxes of diapers. If there is a such thing as being ready for a baby, I don't know if my wife and I are, but our house certainly is.
I walked into the nursery the other night and turned on the Winnie the Pooh lamp sitting on the Winnie the Pooh table. I studied the Winnie the Pooh prints that I hung around the room and quietly counted the Winnie the Pooh stuffed teddy bears sitting on one shelf. I ran my hand along the edge of the crib, decorated with Winnie the Pooh linens, and rubbed a Winnie the Pooh onezie on the top of a basket of clothes.
My mind wandered through fields of wonder and over valleys of fear as I finally allowed it to grasp the reality of the coming days. I smiled and I scowled. I laughed and I cried.
Becoming a father is single most important transition I will ever make. This isn't a house project or even a new job. I am not allowed to screw this up. Yet, I have no experience or credentials to show that I am remotely capable of doing this.
My father -- and he admits this -- didn't exactly provide good role modeling. For the first 10 years of my life, the most important decade in the development of a young man, there weren't many men around for me to model myself after. The only consistent one was my uncle, for whom my son will be named. While my stepfather turned out to be one of my best friends and most important influences as I matured, my impressions of the world around me and how I interacted with them were formed long before he came on the scene.
Family and friends encourage me, saying that I was 11 when my brother and sister were born, so I know how to take care of a baby from my years of being the built-in babysitter. While that is all true, there is a vast canyon of difference between wiping something's butt and building someone's character. I can change a diaper. I don't know if I can shape a mind.
So, the house is ready and the hospital bags are packed. The if-then scenarios with taking time off work have been ironed out and shared with the principle players. We have a call tree to spread the news and commitments from parents and family for visiting and helping out once he's born.
But the new dad may not be ready for this.
I want more than anything to be a good father for my child. I want to protect him and teach him and enlighten him and care for him. I want to teach him about the world. I want to answer his questions and ease his fears.
I want to teach him to play catch and help him build a fort and take him to the beach and show him how to ride a bike. I want to take him to a baseball game and watch him play a few himself.
I want to teach him to not judge others and to treat everyone with respect. I want him to grow up wise, responsible and kind.
But perhaps most importantly, I want him to one day sit in the soft-lit nursery looking at the decorations and running his hands over the terrycloth jumpers in the final weeks of the pregnancy and not be afraid to be someone’s dad.
And I have no earthly idea how to do that.
