Some of us walk with a limp. Maimed by what’s behind us. Struggling to find the door, the answer, to the life we want deep inside. It’s possible! Probable, if you choose to unravel the imposter living in your stead.
If Only I Had A Dad
I was teary-eyed for my daughter who was in distress. But my tears were also mixed with anxious expectancy for the entrance of my grand boy. I needed to be a calm presence in the room, but I had more adrenaline than blood pumping in my body. I was in the room with Tina for the birth of both of our children. But this was somehow more eerie and majestic at the same time. I was a different man, older, wiser, with more to offer—my greying hair proof of my qualifying credentials. As a young father, I wasn’t capable of the same deliberateness that I now had as grandfather.
I perceive what this boy needs from me. And I’m willing and eager to provide for him.
Jaden’s father was not in the room. In fact, he decided to not be in Jaden’s life. Now Jaden will deal with the plight of the fatherless. I am aware that all the love and attention that we will provide him will not alleviate the thoughts and feelings associated with not having a dad. My own experience provided this insight.
He will have good questions where there are no good answers.
When Jaden parted the atmosphere of this world, I had a moment like no other in the totality of my life. I became more aware than I had ever been. Significance was no longer attainable; it just was.
The nurse took Jaden to the other end of the room. I left my wife and medical staff to attend to the needs of our daughter, and I followed my boy. As she prepared him, I was right there, hovering, watching every move she made. I wanted to see any flinch of a muscle and hear any sound that might come from his mouth. I was on a mission to give my grand boy a red-carpet reception. Perceiving the creative energy of life, I was standing still but pacing on the inside, waiting for the moment I could introduce Jaden to my love and affection.
After she prepared him the nurse wrapped him in a nice, warm, baby blue blanket; and, because they were still dealing with our daughter, she handed him to me. Divine design? I received this living, breathing gift and held him close. As the rush of love meshed the two of us as one, I reflected on what I knew about my own birth.
I arrived a little beaten up by my exit from the birth canal. Besides my unwanted entry wounds, I emerged with red hair, eyebrows that were barely distinguishable, and very light skin. Wrapped in a nice, new baby-blue blanket, I was presented to my mother.
“That’s not my son!” she exclaimed. “My son has dark hair and olive skin. You need to go get ‘my’ son!”
©Rick Amitin 2016 all rights reserved.