A Letter to My Son on Father’s Day 2012 : by Logan's appa ("daddy")

[As a special Father's Day post, we are featuring a guest writer-- Logan's daddy!  Enjoy!]

Dear Logan:

August 24, 2011, marked the day that you became my son.  

We are about 10 months removed from your birthday, yet the images immediately following your birth are crystallized in my memory.  Your purple skin slowly fading into a painfully pasty complexion inherited from me.  Your skinny arms and chicken legs -- yet again, inherited from me -- trembling as they were exposed to a sub-par temperature in a hospital room that was not as familiar and toasty as Umma’s 98.6 degree womb.  Your wavy hair, bequeathed from your grandfather to me, then to you.  Your wide, bridgeless nose. 

Yes, you truly are my son.   

The sounds of your birthday still echo in my ears.  Your grandmother telling Umma “You did a great job, Amy.”  Background chatter from Dr. Robert Martin and the nursing staff as they recorded your vitals, which sounded like nothing more than white noise as I tuned into the only sound that I longed to hear for nine months: a pathetic cry from an infant as if to scream to anyone “Hold me!”  Before you were passed to Umma, I had the honor to hold you first, so I whispered to you “Hi, Logan, I’m your Appa and I love you.  I’m going to take care of you.”  

When you were born, I was determined to experience the gauntlet of raising you, even when my two-week leave from work ended.  When you cried every two hours in the night due to hunger or a dirty diaper, I got up with Umma to help feed and change you.  When you cried for reasons unknown, no matter how tired I was, I got up with Umma to attend to you.  I loved to tell you “Appa’s here.”  Yes, I had to go to work in three hours, but I refused to let work be an excuse for me to stay in bed.  I turned my responsibilities on their heads and put you first.  After all, why should Umma  have to get up by herself to take care of you?  You were my son, too.   

Fatigue manifested itself by way of bags under my eyes, heaviness in my body, sleeping behind the steering wheel on my way to work, and the yearning to sleep in my office.  A badge of honor for Fatherhood, I suppose.  

The true reward in being a father to you right now cannot be about knowing that you love me.  Do you even know that I am your Appa?  Probably not, but I know that I am your Appa, which gives me cause to do whatever I can to let you know that I am your Appa.  You will not remember when our sleepless nights rendered us in your room as we fed you.  You will not remember when Hurricane Irene robbed us of electricity and forced us to feed you in the dark with two candles on the floor, and how I almost burned down your room when I dropped a lit match on the rug.  You will not remember how we shamelessly sang to you in cartoon voices to stop you from crying.  You will not remember when you slept on my chest and how I had to sit still for hours on the sofa and gently breathe lest you wake up.  But I will.  I can tell you that in your most helpless state, I did whatever it took to make you comfortable.  I did whatever it took to show you how much I love you.

Soon enough my responsibilities to you will inevitably change.  I look forward to showing you how to love Umma, therein establishing a foundation to encourage and love your future wife.  I look forward to teaching you how to shoot a basketball with dizzying rotation; how to ride a carbon road bike with efficient cadence so that you can ultimately win the Tour de France; how to dice an onion or chiffonade basil leaves so that your culinary school instructor will marvel at your knife skills, resulting in Eric Ripert hiring you as Executive Chef at Le Bernardin; how to practice good posture when sitting in a chair; how to hold a pencil; and how to study and re-study.

I cringe for the day when I have to first discipline you, but I hope to do so with love so that you and I will be better for it.  I rue the day when you start dating, but I relish the conversations when I advise you on why girls are no good (that is, until you meet the one that Umma and I like).  In our failing US economy, there is a disquieting apprehension as to the rising cost of college tuition, but Umma and I will make ends meet so that we can afford to send you to the University of Michigan (or Pennsylvania, per Umma).

But for now, let me just hold you in my arms because one day you will be as tall and heavy as me.  Let me just sing “God is so good” to you as I put you to bed because one day you will insist that big boys can go to sleep by themselves.  Let me just conjugate your name in as many ways as possible in a high-pitched voice because one day you will think I am too corny.  Let me just kiss you and tell you how much I love you because one day you will think it is embarrassing.  Let my heart just melt when I walk into your room at 6:15 every morning to see you hopping in your crib smiling, waiting for us to come get you, because one day there will be a sign on your door that says “NO ADULTS ALLOWED!”  As your personality blossoms and as your recognition of me strengthens, let me just savor your smile as validation that you know me and that you can trust me because one day you, in turn, will give me a kiss and tell me “I love you, Appa.”

Just let me.

Logan, Father’s Day is not about celebrating the father as much as it is about celebrating who the father raises and how the child is raised over the years.  Father’s Day is not about my one day to accept an honorary or to pat myself on the back for doing what I have done thus far and for what I hope to do, so please refrain from buying me something so as to think that Father’s Day was a success.  Father’s Day is and will be a success because of you, who changed my life.  

August 24, 2011, marked the day that I became your father.