Photo by Frank McKenna

Fatherly Love

I love my son.
He’s two-years old.
Not the sweetest kid I’ve ever met.
But he’s close enough.
And I love him.

He’s so much fun to be around.
He’s the hippest new kid in town.
He’s delighted by the sights and sounds…
It’s all so strange to him.

I want to watch a movie?
He’s right there with me.
I want to sing and dance?
Always by my side.
I’m tired and looking for sleep?
He’ll curl up right next to me
All warm and comfy cozy
I mean…
If only we could be with one another…
He’d really be the whole package.

Don’t worry.
That’ll never happen.
He’d never have me.
He’s way out of my league.

But each day he gets older.
Each day he gets bolder
Smarter
Wiser.
More sophisticated in his tastes.
More aware of what could be.

Less tolerant of watching Back to the Future again.
Less willing to jam out to Ice Ice Baby.
Less receptive to Peek-a-boos
Severed thumbs
Belly raspberries
Knee bounces
Tickle attacks
And eating pre-chewed food right out of my mouth

Each day he changes
In myriad of barely discernible ways
Into a person-person.
Into an asshole.
Into the rest of you.
Of us.

Maybe he’ll be different.
Maybe he’ll keep his room clean.
Maybe he’ll eagerly learn from the mistakes of others.
Maybe he’ll win the Nobel Prize for Being Freaking Awesome

Maybe he’ll visit his father
Often
With fervour and zeal
Just to be by my side.
And it’ll be just like old times.

I hope so.
Because I love my son.

I should really call my mother.

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