my valentines

my son is seven.  

my daughter is five. 

i have friends who's children are older and i have friends who's children are younger.  i have friends who's children are smarter and i have friends who's children are dumber.  

my kids aren't the tallest, strongest, fastest, most well-behaved, geniuses, or anything else we as american parents often want our children to be and against reason sometimes think they are.  

they sometimes get in trouble at school and get in scuffles with friends.  they get cuts and bruises, broken arms and broken hearts.

they stomp away from obedience and cross defiant arms.  they argue and throw tantrums.

they often won't eat all their food, take their dishes from the table, or turn off the light.

they wiggle in church and fidget during prayer.

they do 1,000 other things every day that would drive any parent up a wall.

and i would have it no other way.

my son asked me to read him poetry . . . my heart skipped.

my daughter will push her way through people just to hold my hand . . . i will always keep one free.

my son likes the music i like . . . he says "i like it because it's yours."

my daughter climbs in bed with me . . . i love her knees in my back.

my son offers me his own money when i am low . . . giving.  at 7!

my daughter writes "i love daddy" everywhere . . . even when i'm not there.

i see their joys and i feel their hurts.  they make me laugh and sometimes i have cried.  they defy my expectations.  they are my greatest source of joy and they are my greatest source of lessons learned.  they are not perfect . . . yet they are.

i love them with all my heart and i wanted to tell you.

in just a few moments, when i lie down in my bed, i will lie down alone.  no wife by my side i'll fall asleep in silent obscurity.  it is my own making . . . consequences like snow falling slowly into place every night.  i have no one to share these things with.  the joyous stories of my children go often untold.  they are treasures i store up in my heart to push into the dreams i hope to have each night.  sometimes, like tonight, i have to stop and take stock again of how fleeting this life is, how transient our stories appear compared to the eternal foundations of our God, and how i am nothing but a living testimony of His grace that i get to sit here in an empty kitchen and be able to share at all what a wonderful, wonderful gift my children are to me.

the following two poems i wrote for each of them.

to my son

 

you, me, the irony

of listening to the crash test dummies

at the auto shop

 

and the realization that re-do's

don't come in your size shoes

makes me stop

 

and take stock of this brief moment . . .

that time won't wait for what i meant

to do, fly with you, make you into

 

the kind of man i was supposed to be:

having wisdom, knowing responsibility,

leading you, teaching you, believing you

 

will grow up, but don't rush, let's pretend

while we can, that super-heroes always win in the end

and chase our shadows where time ticks

 

away in the darkness of a crocodile's belly,

if it's gonna tick, why not let it go silly

in a land where i can pick

 

you up and throw you into

the air a thousand feet up, and always catch you,

hitting the ground never in view

 

because here, where time ticks on the wall,

i cannot bear the weight of letting you fall . . .

re-do's don't come in your size shoes.

to my daughter

 

every time you make me tea

i have to remember to drink your smile

and remember that your tea is always best

with a little sugar.

 

and i have to remember mondays

and blueberry coffeecake

and being home to hold you

with your arms around my neck.

 

because i'll need to reach back

when i come home to see you

making tea for someone else,

with smiles and sugar, or

 

sitting in my chair on friday night,

while you're out getting coffee,

planning your cake,

your arms around his neck.