Dear Frankie,
Today you are two years old. I remember waking up at four
something to get your Mom to the hospital. I remember the doctor holding you up
and your precious little cry. I remember carrying you to the recovery room and
sitting in the rocking chair waiting for your Mom to come out from surgery. I
remember those dark blue eyes staring at me, inquisitively figuring me out. I remember
my heart breaking and remolding just from holding eight plus pounds of you and
blankets. I remember my first prayers for you and my continual peace with you
in my arms.
You are growing up so fast. I understand the people that
wish for their children to live with them for forever, but I also know I look
forward to raising you and seeing you flourish in life. There is no greater joy
than seeing you twirl, sing, laugh, smile, stare, glare (you got that from your
Mom…okay, you got it from me), and challenge me to be a better father and
person.
You know no stranger. Coming from a guy who is borderline
socially inept and continually trapped in my thoughts and puzzles, you amaze
me. You teach me to not fear people or situations. To you, every person you meet
is a new adventure. Your acceptance and appreciation is beautiful.
You’ve made me realize that disciplining you truly is as
hard on you as it is on me. I understand a little more of what the Lord must
feel when teaching us and disciplining us. I find no joy in it, and my
heartbreaks, but knowing that it is forming you in a godly manner, I know there
is a greater good. Or as a comedian once said, I’d rather discipline you than
have you be the next Hitler or serial killer. Know that it is done in love and sadness and not
in vengeance or for lack of compassion.
Lastly, your joy in something as simple as a song, reading a
story, twirling and dancing to the music in your head, or a short walk is
inspiring. I admire your sense of adventure and curiousness. You are ever
learning and shaping your own thoughts, even at this young age. Your ability to
see something once and repeat it is amazing and scary (like when you weren’t
even two, you learned to gurgle water by watching me or your usage of an iPhone at the level of most adults).
I’m sorry for any mistakes, failures, or disappointments I
have caused or will cause. I’m not perfect and never will be, but I will always
love and cherish you. You are beautifully and wonderfully made.
Forever and always,
Your loving Dad
