Hallmark Won't Cut It

G Lad turns 2 this weekend.  Spin the earth in the opposite direction for just a couple of turns, and yours truly is taking full advantage of the carpool lanes that thankfully skirt the morning traffic crushing past LAX.  Just about an hour later, we’re entering the maternity ward and I allow myself a moment to exhale.  A professional commitment put a few counties between us and our hospital just weeks ahead of the expected due date.  So at 5AM of the second morning of a scheduled three-day project, the wife comes back to the hotel bed and tells me she “thinks” her water broke.

I’ll say this for my son, he took a subtle approach upon entering the world.  It took a call to the OB to determine that we were in fact about to cross the river, so to speak.  Naturally, the wife had to mention to the doc that there were about two-hundred highway miles separating us from her.  Nothing like panicking your primary care giver before she sees her first patient of the day.  I assured everyone, (including myself) that we’d make it just fine.  Thank God there were no contractions until much later in the day.

The world changed at 7 that evening.  One push, and I watched the OB pull my son into the world.  Father.  Son.  Mother.  My mind was reeling with these words as it processed their true meanings, while attempting to record every second of the next hour to memory.

My eyes stayed on him.  I was measuring his character, already.  Not crying.  No sign of panic or fear in his eyes.  “He’ll keep his head when others are losing theirs”, I thought to myself.  I marveled at the indigo shade of his eyes.  There was a question as he returned my stare, fists clenched into tiny balls, “Who the hell are you?” 

“I’m your father”, I replied, managing to avoid any Darth Vader irony in my voice. 

The nurse took him over to the scale.  “Who the hell are you?” His stare fixed on her, then moved to the OB.  They brought him back to my wife.  “Who the hell are – oh yeah, I am kind of hungry, thanks”.  His eyes softened at that moment.  He looked back up at her.  “Who did you say you were, again?”

“I’m your mother”, she replied, stroking the hair that poked out of the swaddling blanket giving him the appearance of an expertly-wrapped burrito.  To this day, I wonder if she saw the recognition of who she was register behind his gaze.  I wonder if she can recall that moment when her son looked into her radiant face and established a connection more profound than the physical one that was just severed.  The question was no longer there.  The three-word answer echoed behind his eyes as they closed.  I could almost hear his tiny brain making its first association and turning it into a lullaby:

“Mom”

“Love”

“You”

Mother.  Son.  Father.  My own three-word mantra was playing in my head as I watched and loved my new family.  I still watch, and in spite of all that has happened in the past year, I am joyful to find love still exists in this battered heart. 

Happy birthday, Gio. 

Your Father