Good morning, my first born.
I know it’s early,
just like it was years ago,
but I wanted to let you know that I am here.
Just like I was there then.
Your mother had worked so hard,
and it was painful,
and she was exhausted.
So she smiled tenderly at you,
said “Hello, little one!”,
and held you awhile.
Then she handed you to me,
and she drifted off to sleep,
to get much-needed rest.
How I loved you!
How glad I am that I had the chance
that few fathers have.
I got to hold you for a while,
right after you were born.
I was there.
That seems to be the way it was,
wasn’t it, for years?
I was there.
No Harry Chapin song
(Cat’s in the Cradle)
applied.
Because of the work I chose,
I was there
when you caught your first football
at six months old
in the Johnny Jump-up.
I was there for your first day of school,
and your first church talk,
and your first overnight camping trip.
And when you stole home with the go-ahead run
in the championship Kirkland National Little League game,
I was there as your third base coach.
I was there
for your soccer games,
and your rocket reports,
and your problems,
and your triumphs,
and your blessings,
and your first fish,
and your first dance,
and your first car,
and your Eagle Scout award,
(and all that led up to it!),
and your graduations,
and your first trip to college,
and on
and on
and on.
I was there,
always so proud of you.
I still am.
Now you’re a father yourself!
You’re far away.
And it may not seem like I am there,
but you are always in my thoughts
and my prayers.
Just as you’ve always been,
and always will be.
And I always want to be there,
if not with you,
then at least for you.
Happy birthday, Itty Bitty Kristian!
I love you.
Love, Dad.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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