I can still see the smile on your face; I can hear the joy
in your voice when you were spending time with our kids. Likewise, I can feel their sheer happiness
from time spent with you.
Most of my most vivid memories of you relate to you being a
dad. I remember you taking me out to
dinner the night we found out I was pregnant with Matthew. We talked about what it would be like;
whether we wanted a boy or girl; what we would name “it”; would we find out the
gender. I remember lying in bed with you
one night, my bulging belly in the curve of your back. The little human inside me kicked with the
oomph of the Karate Kid he would become, and you felt it. You thought it was the coolest feeling in the
world. And so did I. Your elation made it memorable – extra
special. January 14, 1988, we became parents for the first time. I remember your tears of relief, sheer joy,
and pride at 11:57 p.m. when you heard “it’s a boy!”
You jumped right into the role of fatherhood without
hesitation. You laughed when you got
peed on and spit up on (playing airplane while laying on your back with a baby
who is prone to spitting up was a lesson learned!), and you stood outside in
the cold with him when he struggled with asthma, or tolerated the crying when
he wouldn’t take a bottle so I could have an hour or two of “me time.”
Twice more you and I experienced the wonder of life
together, and each time the excitement was different, but the same. You had your boy, then your girl. Life was full. One for each hand, you said. Then came the third – another girl – no more
even numbers, but even more joy. They were your princesses, and you were their king.
You became an expert at Legos; at singing the Barney song (I
can still hear you croon every word, locking eyes with our Barney queen,
Meaghan, as you sang it together); at reciting Good Night Moon; in reading the
Sunday Globe with anxious little eyes peering over the paper, filled with
anticipation of playing with you; at making up games, that usually involved
candy. You didn’t mind that your hike up Blue Hills took three times as long
because you had Julz at your side, or the work in the yard became more work now
that you had little helpers.
As the kids grew, so did your devotion to them. Our conversations were often about where the
kids would go to school, what they would be like as independent little
beings. We talked about our philosophies
in parenting impressionable teens, and how we would use, and not use, what we
learned from our parents. You now had
someone to recite the “Don’t Quit” poem to, hoping it would help them the way
it helped you through tough moments.
You taught me what it means to be a father … and a dad.
I never imagined I’d need to fill the role myself. That was supposed to be yours for a much
longer time. But I’m grateful to have had
the best teacher, and I know our kids are grateful to have had the greatest
dad. You may have left us physically,
but you are with us every day, every minute, with your words of encouragement,
your goofy laugh, your captivating smile, and your always-uplifting group
hug.
Happy Father’s Day in Heaven, Jeff. With much love.
