Sitting up thinking about the last article I wrote on here about my youngest son and am realizing it comes off as mostly negative and ungrateful.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I love that kid.
Every morning he comes downstairs and wakes me up. He always thinks he’s being sneaky. Sometimes he is, and I don’t wake up until he jumps up on me. Other times I can hear him coming from a mile away.
But he always has the same smile on his face and can’t wait to get his day started.
He hugs me, gives me pounds, talks about ninja turtles, Peter Pan, and ‘Squints’ from the Sandlot, and asks if he can call Gram LeeAnn and Grandpa Hawk every morning at 7am Central time.
I wish I found anything during my day half as interesting as he finds everything during his.
Yesterday I put my drink up on my car as I was getting him and Mara buckled in to go to the park and just as I was getting ready to sit down he said, “Daddy, don’t forget your water, because if the wind blows it’ll knock it over and spill it, and if you drive too fast it’ll fall off the roof. Either way you’ll lose it.”
Oh. Okay. Thanks.
The truth is at no point in my life did I ever imagine I’d have kids until the moment Tabitha told me she was pregnant, and it’s crazy to watch someone you’re half way responsible for creating go from his first day on earth to being almost 5 years old.
I have randomly teared up at odd times thinking about him and looking back on some of the things he’s said.
I often think about how fun it will be to watch a baseball game with him, coach one of his teams, or golf with him when he gets older.
Or how crazy it will be to have an adult conversation with him when he’s 30, assuming I’m still alive and have the mental capacity to partake in one.
Harrison is my son.
And every single day he blows me away with something new.
The challenge of feeling like he never listens to me is a small price to pay to have him around.