A Lifetime in the Making

I wrote this a really long time ago, before our son got married (which he did last Thursday). I've not done very much very well in this life (or at least so far), but marrying my wife and being the father to our two children were excellent moves on my part. At the time I called it: 

Memo to My Son

Today is the birthday of my son, Patrick Michael. When I type 'my son' or 'my daughter' (when speaking of his sister, Michelle Alison) or 'my wife', Sigrid Katherina, I smile, not because of pride of possession mentality but because I am truly the most fortunate person on the planet. 

If we've not met, count your blessings-I am NOT likable. Take my word on that-and be assured I could send you a list of folks who could attest to this fact, and it would vaguely resemble the census in size and scope (to include minus the citizenship question), helps underscore my point. 

Go Yankees!

Being not likable makes it a difficult stretch to be lovable, and yet, my wife, an otherwise sane and logical person, could not possibly be married to me for over four decades, but has. Our two children are the result of her ability to make someone into something they feared they never could be. She not only raised two children, but she also transformed a self-absorbed obliviot into an Approximate Dad. Considering what she had to work with, she done good.

Sigrid went into labor in the middle of the morning and we drove across town to the Offenbach Stadtkrankenhaus. German physicians in the early Eighties were pretty much an unknown species to me (Sigrid's frauenarzt was cool enough-I still have the black and white Polaroids of Patrick in the womb, ornaments clearly visible) and I was to them as well. 

As Sigrid's labor continued and the contractions shortened and the delivery preparation's tempo quickened, I was asked where I would be during her stay in the geburtsaal, and I assured the doctors, 'right there with her', which surprised them. I attempted to explain that I had placed the order and had every intention of taking delivery. Maybe my German wasn't that good-it was like playing to an oil painting, no smile, no nothing, gar nichts. 

Rocking suspenders

When Patrick was born, Sigrid looked as if she had just run a marathon and was utterly exhausted. I watched while the midwife cleaned up my son and, as she swabbed off the blood, he peed on her. Crying, basically blind, totally helpless in an alien world, he was my son and I laughed out loud maybe in amazement but more likely in joy and thankfulness for what I had just witnessed. 

The midwife placed Patrick Michael on Sigrid's chest, for mother and child bonding and my disappointment knew almost no words. At that moment, I was so jealous of the woman I loved. I asked as politely as I could if, after she had 'had enough of holding him', if I could, and was stunned when she picked him up and fixing me with a stare that bordered on a glare handed Patrick to me, saying 'I've carried him for nine months, it's your turn now.' 

From the moment I held him, Patrick Michael was, and is, my deal with God. I know your children are beautiful, smart, talented, and handsome and I'm sorry-they're not my children and my son and my daughter are the absolute best not only in the world but in the history of the world. 

My always favorite photo. Always.

I walked him around that delivery room for the next two hours or so, singing I've Been Working on the Railroad and really working those Fie-Fi-Fiddly-I-Os, making up in volume what I lacked in pitch. 

He and his sister, have overcome the handicap of being my children, mostly because they've had the good fortune to have the love and devotion of my wife as their Mom. And, yeah, he's made me crazy, angry, frightened, delighted and every emotion in between--because that's what children do.

You didn't think I had this picture.

And as long as you remember to make sure they always know that sometimes they will do things you will not like, but that you will always love them, they will be able to do anything, even leave you when they grow up to be adults of their own. And your eyes will fill with tears as you watch them end the chapter of their childhood and begin to write their own novel as the life you always wanted for them finally begins. 

And it hurts, and maybe the keyboard blurs as I type this because it's really warm and my eyes are perspiring-yeah, that what it is I'm sure. And on this birthday I also get to say a few words to the newest Mrs. Kenny on the planet (to my knowledge), Patrick's bride, Jena: Sigrid and I have no words to express our joy that Patrick has found someone who loves him as much as we do. Welcome into our family and into our hearts. 

Mr. and Mrs. Kenny

Happy Birthday, Patrick! Love, Dad.