Raising Kids: A Divine Comedy

You want to instill in your children certain things. You want them to possess good manners, morals, a sense of perspective. You want them to be well-rounded and read; athletic, mature, smart and be good. You want them to love God. You want them to love others. You want them to honor and respect everything and everyone in the creation around them. You also want them to be funny. At the very least, not un-funny.

But how do you foster humor in a child?

Kids have a sense of the funny already. I think it's because they see things simply. Not in satire, not in nuance or entendre. Not in sarcasm or in wit. Things are funny in and of themselves. Of course they do things that are funny unintentionally. Call it the comedy of omission. I've got nephew stories to prove it right now. A co-worker has kid stories that top those.

Their sense of what's funny, their appreciation of intentional comedy progresses. And it starts at the slapstick stage, which perhaps, if you're a fan of the Stooges, stays with us no matter what (I contend that walking into a wall is at all times, by everyone considered funny). This is where Isaac is at currently. Yesterday he stood on the ottoman, pretended to lose his balance and fall headlong onto the chair and back for 20 minutes. He laughed hysterically the entire time. So did I. Then there's this.

But I really do think it's because they see things simply. Everything is new and amazing. Being able to grab a toy or ask for the tooth brush is a grand achievement. A sense of the wow permeates it. So it is with humor. That Isaac walks into the table and laughs while we cringe delineates our current world views. Exactly what his is I have not an inkling. But I know he talked to himself on the way to the sitter this morning breaking in with uncontrollable laughter. He gets the punchline. It's simple and it's funny. And a child's laughter, unadulterated, is easily the simplest, purest and most breathtaking joy imaginable.

Like Father, Like Son: On A Broken Hand

Just like my boy, I've broken a bone. No, he didn't drop me down the stairs. Instead, I succumbed to my own stupidity while playing basketball. I'll leave it at that. Needless to say a broken hand makes life difficult. Taping up my arm at 6am to shower is no easy task. Neither is changing a diaper.

Isaac hasn't noticed. He's paid about as much attention to my injury as he did to his own. He still expects to chase me around the house, wrestle with me and have me give him baths. And while I have been considerably and understandably slowed at tasks around the house and notably at work, his perspective has gone a long way to solidify my own. I am not as adaptable as he was when he broke his leg, that experience is fresh in my mind: the energy and adaptability of a child is truly amazing.

May I be like my son.

On A Year: March 12, 2007 - March 12, 2008

Remember this day. It was one year ago. Some 365 days ago. 52 weeks precisely. Countless hours. Untold-about minutes. Time has certainly elapsed. And there just is no way to simply put, to easily say, summarily describe how relentlessly blessed and wonderful life has become.

Scrolling through pictures and videos and memories has been a marvelous delight. Remember when he first smiled. Remember when he first laughed. Remember his first Opening Day. Remember when he rolled over onto his stomach. Remember when he rolled over onto his back. Remember when he started to croll. Remember when he started to crawl. Remember when he first said Momma and Dadda. Remember his first tantrum. Remember his first haircut, bath, outfit, giggle, chuckle. Remember when he broke his leg. Remember when he first danced. Remember his first steps. Remember how his eyes light up something magical and happy at just about every moment.

To measure this time, as we are doing today with baseball cupcakes and caterpillar cakes, with wagons and gloves, to measure it is an immense task; like nothing else. Comparable to no other thing. It's grandness, it's largeness, lies in not recalling when a first happened, or when he did a certain thing, like when he laughed insatiably because he was being tickled. It lies not in remembering the events of the past year. The true realization of the strength and power of today's celebration is remembering a time when this was not so. Isaac has so filled our lives with an indescribable essence that it has overflowed from moment to moment, seeped into the past and flows just as endlessly into the future.

This year has composed moments we can measure and capture and quantify. It has consisted of the one thing beyond measure: Our love that has grown larger than the days, larger than the weeks and months, larger than the mere year that has gone by.

Happy Birthday Isaac.

How I love you.

A Larger World: Isaac's Foray Into The Backyard

He was used to small places. Accustomed and familiar with the intimate settings of his world. For his part, he was only required to explore the outer reaches of the first floors of the homes he visited. Behind the couches and rocking chairs and cautious looks into the shadows of the underneaths of dressers and beds. It would be a grand occasion when he could climb a flight of stairs or kick and scream happily in shallow waters of white porcelain or blue cement, or gaze quietly into the passing trees through a moving window. But even those occasions were small in stature, never far from an outstretched hand of someone whom he infinitely trusts.

When his world did get larger, he did not get smaller. He did not shrink and cower into the familiar. Instead, he basked in its immenseness, swam in the seemingly infinite depths that were swirling around him in cool yellows of a setting sun and gray and white columns of clouds passing over his head. He would not move forward, out into the sea. But he would not retreat. Call that holding one's ground or a lack of bravery. Call it what you will. And call his name, see if he'll set forth on his feet and hands and chase out into the wide tenets of air and light and grass and mud and towards voices of those whom he infinitely trusts.

The world becoming larger is not an easy event to comprehend. To categorize and classify and assess for any of us. That's not even accounting for the equally daunting task of realizing one's place in this world. And for a child, for one who possess innocence and a sweet laughter, even he saw the need to examine, to not have it go unexamined. A truly admirable and envious and difficult task. One that takes no account for innocence or laughter, but requires them properly. There was no one greater to the task in that moment.

Sitting there in the yard, the grass and light around him, he made some judgements, comprehended some of the matters swirling about: That the world just got infinitely bigger. And that, even though he wasn't ready to leap out and crawl and walk and frolic, he could appreciate those of us who try, like me, his dad. With his open and bright blue eyes, heaven-ward, and a simple smile and hair gently tossed by the breeze, he admired those of us who try to make the world not seem so big and not seem so unfamiliar. He humored my attempts to encourage him and inspire him forward by showing him all the things I thought he could do in this larger place. But he had his own take, emitted surprisingly as he looked about and around: laughter at random, unprovoked intervals.

I think he thought this big world awesome.

On A Snow: Finally

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that recedes only when the wind dies and there is nothing more than a soft snow falling.

It falls light and large. It has covered the ground and left me longing for days gone by. When school would be cancelled and I would jump off of roofs into drifts deeper than my imagination. Today it was a quick shovel and off to work, stuck in the amalgam of inept drivers and white precipitation turned a muddy brown. Black roads and salted cars. And a white wall moving alongside me in a mocking blur.

Isaac played in the snow today. Crawled around the swingset in the backyard. Scoffed at the snow that fell in and around his mouth. His imagination is still young and light. Though I have no doubt it is large. That beyond his sight, his imagination was able to penetrate the white wall of swirling and tumbling whiteness. That, perhaps, he saw into an ancient past that, when laid out before him, showed him the eras of children and adults playing much like he was. Scoffing and cold, laughing and crawling. But perhaps, in his youth, he merely understood that before him was something very special, and something very much for him to enjoy. Something very simple.

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that may never recede for me.

But out there, in my large and amalgamated world, I know where there is a simple, soft snow falling.

A Few Small Steps

So the day, hour, moment has arrived. Isaac has taken his first steps. As you can see by the video, he's clearly proud. Mom and Dad are proud as well. Quitely and confidently and exstatically proud. Crawling and rolling over were significant moments; standing up was also a special moment. But walking, venturing out from point A to point B, has been our favorite. Of course we realize that the adventuresome spirit Isaac has will manifest itself ten-fold with this new talent he possesses. That more things will be reached for. More things will be knocked over. More tears and more crying from falls and slips and collisions. But there will also be inevitable moments of accomplishment. Of adventure. Of opportunity for laughter. Of "look-what-I-can-do Mom"s and "Try-and-catch-me Dad"s.

So in the few small steps he took last night, there lies giant footprints of happiness.

Unlocking the Magic

Enjoy Isaac's First Oreo.

He did.

My People And Your People: Scheduling

Schedules are funny thing; you hardly ever think about them, take the time to realize your on a schedule. But we are. We operate, not in the banal and mundane effects of adhering to a schedule, out of a routine of which we are mainly unawares. Meals, bathroom breaks, snacks, T.V., commutes, events: they all go according to set times and dates; and so go our own lives. I suppose I always, somewhere, recognized this truism; but it never affected me until this month.

Out of the graciousness of my heart I agreed to shift my work schedule three days a week. Don't see me as too altruistic however when I tell you that the shift allows me to train on directing higher profile things that inevitably give me a greater and newer skill set. Still, I'm working nights for three days. In doing this, I miss my most coveted time with my family.

I suppose I never realized it. How much dinners and baths and story time and the house silences at bedtime really means to me. How special and crucial it is to my makeup. How apart of my daily schedule it is. But for three days a week I miss out on that.

However, I do get the ever-fantastic mornings with Isaac: where he is arguably at his best and funniest and most energetic. Where the car-rides, shopping trips, babysitters, other people, phone calls and meals have not gotten in the way. When he has awoken from whatever fantastic dream danced through his head with laughter and excitement: "It's a new day, Daddy! Good Morning!" That's what it feels like he says to me while he is shaking his crib as I enter the room while the sleep shakes from his eyes. And then he sits down and laughs as I go to pull him from his bed. Just laughs, giggles and smiles. Looks up at me with excitement. This is how we begin the day.

And when I go to work, I look forward to the mornings. But I miss the evenings too. The incessant water-splashing that soaks us; the running around from one activity to another to stave off sleep; the talking and telling us about his day in a language that is so clear to him.

So this schedule goes for a month. And then I will miss the mornings again.

But life, no matter the schedule, is never routine. This I have loved most of all. Despite how routine we need to make things for Isaac and our benefits; how things need to be set in schedules with times and places and calculations. It is in this, this management of life, that the most delightful freedom occurs. Call it a paradox, but it remains. The trick, talent, necessity, I suppose, is to see not the time, but the Time.

And it will make all the difference.

Does He Know This?

Trust me, we've told Isaac his cast is no longer there. And it's not that I think he doesn't believe us, or that maybe we're out of touch parents; maybe it's his first act of rebellion. Call it Adorable Anarchy then.

The Misadventures Of Isaac

So I was prepared for this, one of the inevitabilities of having a boy. Only I wasn't ready for it to happen so early. But on Saturday, Isaac broke his leg. It happened while I was walking down the stairs. I tripped and fell, landing hard on the steps. I was holding Isaac and I didn't drop him, the only visible injury we could discern was a bump on the head from where we banged into the wall and the emotional injury of scaring the bejesus out of him: I yelled, the Mrs. came running in with a yelp of her own. He was consoled and slept for a couple of hours afterwards.

But later in the afternoon, I noticed, while he was pulling himself to stand, he was doing it awkwardly - favoring the left side and screaming like he was in pain. So we went to the Children's Hospital in town where they told us Isaac had a broken leg.

He's doing well, already adapting to the large blue cast on his left leg. He's figured out how to crawl as normal and has even taken to pulling himself back up to a standing position -- which isn't permissible given the injury. And all accounts point to him making a full recovery with no long term effects.

Kids are amazing. How they adapt, how they learn so very quickly.

The Red Sox Bear Us Away To Winter

It's over. 162 games. The Postseason. The World Series. It has ended gloriously for us Red Sox fans. Our second World Series in 4 years. An absolute and unequivocal drubbing of the Rockies to win the World Series. And two mornings removed, the smile not yet wiped away from my face, it still remains over.

I watched the game. Every pitch. Every hit. Every inane comment from McCarver and Buck. It wasn't riveting, it was affirming. I knew we had a good team, a great team. Young and talented in some corners, experienced and unrelenting in others. Scrappy and emotional in the field, quiet and graceful at the plate. Never have I been so impressed with my Red Sox. Sure 2004 was outstanding, a beyond-words-cornucopia of glory and emotion. But 2007 was stunning. A knock you to your knees awe-inspiring season. There were rough moments, but you expect those with anything that takes perseverance. There were few come-from-behind wins this year, more content to take the lead and never surrender it games. I can honestly say there were never any doubts. When you see a team this good, this powerful and dominating, they leave little room for doubts.

Since 2004, the ominous and foreboding feeling has gone. I read that 2004 was an exorcism, 2007 was an exercise in domination. I tend to agree. This was a very good baseball team. And almost as exciting, this will be a very good baseball team next year.

I watched us emerge victorious in Game 4 in the same manner and means I watched us win Game 7 of the ALCS. Isaac was awakened and seated in my lap, my legs crossed underneath me, his draped over them. His stiff little back holding his alert head upright braced against my chest. Faced forward, eyes open, both of us watching the Red Sox win. I told the Mrs. last night I swear he knew something was going on. Occasionally he would look up at me, bright blue eyes reflecting the green fields of my childhood imaginations of World Series victories. Those eyes would stare into mine, then turn to the T.V. for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. He may have been saying nothing, just taking note of the two animate things in the living room at midnight. But in my mind he understood. Not what was going on, only that something was going on. So we watched. Cheered. Called family. And we, together, father and son, won the World Series.

For the 2007 season I watched the games. Never sure what was happening in the larger sense, only that something was happening. This was a good baseball team and a lot of fun to watch. Now that we've won, I'm still not sure I can put winning the World Series into words. Twice in a lifetime!", that was the headline on ESPN yesterday featuring an animated, wide-eyed, wearied and enthralled Papelbon. That's about right. Twice in my lifetime the Red Sox have won the World Series. The Red Sox have won the World Series twice. Never gets old, always bears repeating.

For all the celebration, the quiet moments of joy with my son seated in my lap, I am sad this morning. Baseball, my pastime, my favorite sport, is over for the winter. It will be a short winter though. And a warm one, images of Papelbons and Pedrioas dancing in my head. Of Manny's and Papi's and Jacoby's bringing smiles to my face. But baseball is over for another year.

But it was a year in which the Red Sox have won the World Series. And that's only happened twice in my lifetime.

On Standing

We stand for different reasons. To keep from sitting to long. The Pledge of Allegiance. A bride walking down the aisle. But for Isaac on Monday, he stood because he figured out he could. I could describe that moment, the first moment he stood for something. Albeit that something was merely because he realized he can.

It was an out-of-the-blue occurrence. Just days before he had started grabbing for things above him. Balancing on three of his four extremities. But on Monday, he made the bold move of, while doing the three-fourths balancing act, to lift his other hand onto the shelf of the entertainment center. I think at that moment, my son developed a dare-devil spirit. Not content with that accomplishment, he strove for something more. Strove to stand for something. It took a minute or so, one that involved him rocking back and forth, hands perched on the shelf, knees under him, during which time he laughed mischievously aloud. And this caught our attention. What was he planning?

Then I saw his leg scoop underneath him and the sole of his foot go flush with the floor. I turned and whispered to the Mrs. , pointing out the development. I mouthed, "Get the camera" and she ran into the other room. Thankfully, he didn't make any move until she got back. And before she could turn it on, he arose. Feet square with the ground, shoulder width apart.

It's the first of his firsts. Sure he was crolling (which has now become a crawl after Monday's events). Sure he ate his first meal, rolled over, slept through the night. But Monday was the first real moment the Mrs. and I realized our son was growing up. Almost too fast. Isaac was standing. Thinking about that moment, the achievement it was for him, one he did without our involvement, did solely on his own, speaks more to how fast he's growing up and how he's developing. In every other first we've been prominently involved. But here we were just bystanders (pardon the pun). Witness to his own will and desire and manifest destiny. And it's a moment and feeling I won't soon forget.

Our son, standing up.

And here's the video version.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

Not Peanuts And Crackerjacks

Now we have Midge Masks. Before there were Rally Monkeys, ThunderSticks and Rally Paddles. Now there's Midge Masks? I have respect for Indians fans. Good fans. Love the game. Are extremely passionate in that un-irritable sense. But Midge Masks? I now am no longer in fear of the Indians.

Why must sports franchises do this? Why must they bastardize a game I love? A game I know intimately and as profusely as the expression involving the back of one's hand. It's as bad as putting "Cheer Now" messages on the JumboTron. It was bad when the Red Sox introduced Wally The Wall Monster. Glorious when fans subsequently booed him. No JumboTron message needed then.

Give me peanuts and crackerjacks. Give me the home team in it's final at bat in a close game. Give me the chance to score a run or prevent a runner from scoring. Give me a great pitching performance, a base hit or a run-scoring grounder to short. I'm cheering. You don't need to tell me. Don't need to mask it with some prop. It is what it is. And it's great. If you can't get into that, well, then, baseball is not for you.

But alas it is. So we'll see fans with Midge Masks tonight. But I don't care if they ever come back. Give me a Red Sox win.

NOTE: I'm going to attempt to "live blog" during the game. I'm not sure why though. Seems like it could be fun. So tune in around game time.

EDIT: Semi-related to the post. It's pretty cool. A good Christmas present for Isaac grandparents!

On Being A Dad

So this past week has been especially trying. Thank you for all of the condolences on this blog. My family appreciated it. Much more could be said about my recent trip up to Maine following Grammie's passing. Like the first trip to Grammie's house. The conversations with Grandpa. There's a lot I've still got tied up inside, still knotted and unkempt. But those are tasks and memories and thoughts for myself alone.

What I will share with you involves Isaac. He made the trip with me. Just he and his Dad. Flying up early Wednesday and coming home yesterday. The Mrs. was also able to be there, coming later and leaving a day earlier. So, for a time, it was just Isaac and I.

Normally in these situations Isaac looks to his Mom as his protector and comforter in a strange place with unfamiliar faces. But with her not always there, I fell into this role for the first time. Hearing his cries for me. Having him curl up in my arms when he was tired. Me being the one whom he expected to make him laugh. It's marked a change in our relationship. Not that I'm not fully involved in Isaac's life, but, let's be honest, the Mrs., his Mom, is his lifeblood. The connection between the two of them is amazing to watch. And this week, a very difficult week, Isaac and I shared that connection as strongly as we ever had. I told the Mrs. I felt like a Dad this week for the first time.

This morning, laying in bed, the Mrs. brought Isaac in and placed him between us. He laid there for few moments, before rolling over and curling up next to me, cuddling in my arms. He had never done that before. And it makes life around you easier, in those moments.

I Love My Red Sox

Engendering

So today our best friends find out the sex of their baby. As we know, their are only two choices: boy or girl. They wanted a girl, but after witnessing how awesome Isaac is they now want a boy.

It was funny how they told us they were pregnant to begin with. The Mrs. had an inkling. So strong in fact that I got a call at work during which time she explored this hypothesis that turned out to be correct. We found out officially when Eric was up in Columbus. He got his Mrs. on the phone and together they gave us souvenirs from their recent trip to Europe. Before we got through the first gift, his eager Mrs. blurted out: "The other gift we're bringing back from Europe won't come until February."At that point there was a lot of screaming, crying and laughing and I don't remember much else other than being very excited.

Well today marks another point on their journey into parenthood. And a not insignificant one either. They're not convinced of the baby's sex one way or the other, though I secretly think they think it's a boy though because they want a boy they don't want to jinx it so are saying they're not sure either way. But I also know they couldn't be more excited about the monumental stop on this road of parenthood. And neither could we.

One request: if it's a boy, go ahead and name it Aaron. But if it's a girl: do not.

UPDATE: THEY ARE HAVING A BOY. STILL NO WORD ON WHETHER THEY WILL NAME HIM AFTER ME OR NOT. BUT I'M LEANING TOWARDS YES.

More On The Little Way

"Surely, this is happiness."

I was reading Remains of The Day. Sitting in the chair. In the background, the Red Sox were playing. Tim Wakefield was pitching. Throwing a gem -- no hitting the Devil Rays -- but throwing a gem. In the recliner, the Mrs. sat holding Isaac. A long day of work put well behind her. Isaac was still awake. Dancing about like that knuckleball. Doing everything to keep from sleeping. To keep from losing time with his mom.

There he was. Bouncing his head around from shoulder to shoulder in silence but with eyes wide open. Reaching often to feel his mothers face. Occasionally cocking his head in my direction. His blue eyes bright enough to pull me from my pages. There remained little in this day. The hours pushing into morning. But there was this moment.

Still dancing silently in her arms, she caved. Sat him on her lap. His eyes glowing. His eyes looking at me. Behind the two of us was our day. Lots of laughter and fun and giggling on the floor. I even read him his own book, "Who Loves Baby?". He wanted a little more. He wanted to laugh. The Mrs. bent over in front of him. But he shifted his head around hers, looking for me. Smiling.

I smiled. Cackled. Made noises. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Wiggling around like a knuckleball in his mothers lap. She watched him. Watched us. Her eyes were tired. But her countenance glowed. She felt the laughter. Felt the smiles. It went on like this for minutes and minutes. Me making him laugh. He eagerly awaiting the chance to laugh, to smile and letting me give him the opportunity.

She held him tight. Rocked him to sleep. Held on to him so tightly. Like she had caught a knuckleball.

"Surely, this is happiness."

On Father's Day

It's my first Father's Day. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to today and, actually, to this post. I've immensely enjoyed fatherhood. Loved being a dad. My entire life I've always wanted to be like my father. To model myself, my approach to life, my marriage and everything else I do on the example my father has and continues to provide for me. Something of which, Dad, I am forever grateful for. And this Father's Day, I am again, like my dad. I'm a dad.

There are moments to come that I will treasure. First words, first steps, first hit, first day of school, etc. But there has been one moment that has stood above it all for me and represented my favorite part of being a dad and also, the toughest and most imposing aspect of fatherhood.

A few weeks ago I returned home from work in the early afternoon. The Mrs. was upstairs with Isaac and had locked the screen door so I couldn't get in. Coming down the steps she had Isaac on her hip, saying to him, "Daddy's home, Daddy's home!" As she came up on the screen door she stopped and put Isaac up to the screen and I bent in and said, "Isaac, I'm home." All of a sudden his eyes got wide and blue. His lips curled out and he cackled, almost hiss-like, as he broke into the biggest and brightest smile. Either slightly embarrassed or extremely excited, he then buried his head right into Mom's shoulder, then put his hand on his face, looked back up at Mom and then looked right back at me. Still smiling. Still cackling. He knew I was home. He knew his Dad was home.

There are many examples of fatherhood. None greater than my Heavenly Father. There are many aspects to being a dad. But in that moment, what it meant to be a dad finally hit me. It was about recognition, for him and for me. In that moment, separated by a screen, he knew me as his Dad. As his father. And there is nothing greater, or bigger, or larger or better than being recognized as a Dad.

My role in his life was presented to me in all it's immensity and all it's glory, all it's challenges and all it's joy. I was Isaac's Dad. Charged to be a father to him, to bring to him everything I can. To teach him to throw a baseball. Teach him to respect his mother and women. To take care of everybody and everyone he can. Teach him to stand up and assert himself. To teach him to admit when he is wrong and make amends. To teach him to be a man.

In that moment, with his eyes bright and wide and blue, with his voice cackling, Isaac showed me my role in his life. Instantly overwhelming and yet exciting.

Fatherhood.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

On Learning New Things

Isaac is learning and, in some ways, that makes me the teacher. I've already taught him when you should swing at a 3-0 count. When to throw the sinker. When to take a jumpshot falling away just inside the three-point line and when to dribble the clock out. I don't think he's grasped my lessons yet. But he is learning in other ways.

The Mrs. bought a fun toy for him last week. Now I'm of the opinion that we should just give our child a cardboard box and let him use his imagination. In fact, I'm excited about our new house because there are several places where a productive imagination could yield some interesting afternoons. But he's not quite there yet. And this toy is a pretty neat thing. Neat in the sense that I can already measure it's effectiveness. Basically, the toy let's him lay on his back with things to grab onto over his head. It's working. In the past week, he's gone from barely being able to focus on something in front of his face to being intrigued by his index finger and reaching for it with his other hand and grab and hold objects at will.

You don't think about teaching these things. You think about teaching right from wrong. Curveballs from sliders. Times tables. Words. Not grabbing things like a plastic ladybug or a rotating toy mirror. Not how to focus and reach for something. Or even putting things within their grasps.

But that's my role as a Dad. To teach him to reach for things over his head, or right in front of him. To teach him to focus, grab and hold on to whatever he can. He starts, I'm learning, with a toy that makes noise, it progresses, eventually, into dreams and goals. From tangible objects to intangible desires.

I guess this is as easy as it will get for me. Because, right now, I can hold the desired object for him to grab on to. I won't always be able to do that.

But when the time comes to teach him how to hit a fastball, rest assured, he's not going to be able to hit my fastball.