A Good Man

Before we were even married, I remember thinking about how you would make a great father. I watched how at ease you were with children. You could roll around on the floor with a group of toddlers one minute and gently cradle a newborn in your arms the next. Nearly every family gathering meant that you would find yourself in the middle of a gaggle of kiddies. They wanted to be around you, to talk to you, tell you their stories, listen to your stories, have you hoist them in the air, give you hugs and kisses, have you chase them. They just loved you . . .

I remember wondering if you were for real.

You were a respectful son. A thoughtful boyfriend. A successful student (I so love cute dorky guys). A responsible worker. A supportive sibling. A loyal friend.

But most of all.

You were a good person. A good man.

You and me. We grew up together. We made a ton of mistakes together. We laughed at said mistakes. We realized we weren't perfect. We figured out just trying to be better each and ever day would be enough. And once we figured that out . . . we knew.

It had been over ten years since we walked down the aisle. Said our vows. Lived our married life. It was time. Adoption was most likely the option, an option we embraced. But, God had other plans.

Baby J. We had no idea that we could actually create another human being (we seriously thought it wouldn't be an option), let alone actually raise one. But there he was. All 5 pounds and 14 ounces of him. Pink. Crinkly. All sorts of amazing.

Life changed . . .

You weren't just a husband. A brother. A son. You were a father . . . less than a year after losing your own. You amazed me with your strength (though I know you will say I amazed you with mine as you couldn't believe what it took to actually bring J into the world). Your determination to be good, to be everything J needed you to be, amazed me. And continues to amaze me every single day.

Now, I watch you with him. You hoist him in the air and he giggles with glee. You blow on his belly as he runs his chubby little fingers through your hair. You sing to him and he looks at you as if you are Pavarotti (we both clearly know you are not--but he thinks you are). He watches you when you walk in the room and his face breaks into a wide, one-toothed grin. He loves you.You are his world.

Just as you are mine.

A good person. A good daddy. A good man.

For which I am eternally thankful.

Your first of many, daddy.

Happy Father's Day . . .