Look How He has Grown

I’m writing to you today, after reading a poem about children leaving handprints all around, and then someday, growing up and the handprints simply fade away. I immediately went to my youngest sons’ room and peered down on him as he slept, debating whether or not I should hold his hand or crawl into bed with him for a cuddle. I noticed how long he has become, stretching across more than half of a queen bed. I imagined squeezing his hand and hearing his little childish giggle. Too soon, these wonderful days will be gone, and I’m sure they’ll be replaced by days that are wonderful in different ways, but for now, I’m going to hold onto this day. I’m so thankful for my children, and for my wife who toiled painfully and sacrificed her body to bring them into this world. The fruit of her labor being the most miraculous gift of all.

I’m also forced to think that my chances of filling him up with love and affection are somewhat fleeting. At least, the sort of love and affection that will serve as a bassline for the rest of his life. How many moments have I given to some meaningless occupation, that could’ve been more wisely invested in this young life? How many more times will he ask me to push him on the blue swing? Will I reply, “Not now honey, I’m busy,” or will I recognize the moment for what it is and let him lead me out again?

When he in turn has a young child and pushes them on the blue swing, will he think of me as I do my father, with thankfulness and love? Or, if he reads a meaningful book, will he think of his mother sweetly, as I do of mine when such masterpieces pass my way?

That moment will come too soon when he must branch out and become his own man. On that day, I will weep and weep and say, “Look how he has grown!”