Tomorrow, April 20th, is my son Jonathan's ninth birthday. The day he was born, our friend Barbara mentioned something about "four-twenty" which went completely over my head at the time, but since then I've been educated about this curious date. It seems 4/20 is some kind of police code for a drug bust. Whoo-hoo. Also, April 20th is Adolf Hitler's birthday. Also, the day Jonathan was born a couple of asshole kids were killing their peers at Columbine High School. Fourtwenty. My son's birthday.
It's a good thing my son is a tremendous kid. He's one of those kids who surprise you every day. He's always a bit smarter than I thought. Sometimes that scares me, but I suppose that's a natural thing for a father to feel.
When he was two years old, I wrote the following essay about him that I'd like to share with you once again. It's called "Morning Son."
It's a good thing my son is a tremendous kid. He's one of those kids who surprise you every day. He's always a bit smarter than I thought. Sometimes that scares me, but I suppose that's a natural thing for a father to feel.
When he was two years old, I wrote the following essay about him that I'd like to share with you once again. It's called "Morning Son."
He comes padding into the bedroom, his little, perfect feet making a slight slapping sound on the hardwood floor.
It's dark still. The clock beside the bed says 5:53 a.m., and no one is up but him. He gets up early a lot like this, just to come into our room and climb into bed with us. Sometimes, I think I wake up early just so I can wait for him. I love the sound of his feet.
He comes around to my side of the bed and puts one foot on the bottom of the bedside table and hoists himself into the bed next to me. He makes no sound after that. He just lies quietly beside me to see if he got away with this intrusion. I take his little hand in mine and hold on to it for a second. He snuggles up close to me to get warm.
My son Jonathan is 2-1/2 years old. On September 11th, he sat in my lap as I watched the horrible events of the day unfold on TV. As I watched the towers collapse and realized the loss of innocent life, I held him close to me like some sort of human security blanket, and every now and then he would look at my face as though he realized something was terribly wrong.
I suddenly had a tear leaking out of one of my eyes and he touched my face with one of his hands and quietly said, "Dadda?" I looked down at him and smiled and told him everything would be OK.
My only son came into my life late. I was 54 years old when he was born, and I figure God had some sort of reason for making me wait this long. I had practically given up on the idea of having children. I rationalized it all by declaring that I didn't want to bring a child into a world like this - full of hate, full of sorrow, full of pain. But God - and my wife, Linda - gave me this boy. This boy so perfect. This boy so full of life. This intense little boy who lies beside me at 5:53 a.m., in the morning, quietly. I'm lying on my back and he rolls over on top of me, his little feet just reaching my hips, and he puts his arms around my neck. Several days before, he and I had gone down to the Amtrak station to watch the trains come in.
JonJon loves trains. He always has me carry him around the trains because the noise and their size scare him a little, so I carried him for about a half-hour and he got to be so heavy. But he's lying on me now, and he's as light as a feather.
He puts his head down on my shoulder and we just breathe together for a while. Too early to make any sound. I put my arms around him, worried that the slightest breeze will blow him away from me. I think of all the awful things happening in the world, the people dying, the children crying.
I hug him gently.
He turns his head slightly and softly kisses my cheek. "Dadda," he sighs, not a question, just a statement. Everything will be OK.
My son. My son.
Happy Birthday Jonathan. Happy 4/20 to everyone. Party on. Regular Update tomorrow.
JP
1 comment:
this is so beautiful. lucky you. lucky boy.
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