A few months ago, while I was writing my master’s thesis, Cayden plodded into my office and tugged on my arm. I sighed because this was the fourth time he’d interrupted me. I turned and watched as he pointed to the entryway. The afternoon sun was shining through the beveled edges of the window in our front door, casting slices of color onto our peppery carpet.
“Look Dada,” he shouted, “rainbow.”
I looked and sighed again. “Yes, rainbows.” My mind raced for a way to make him play in the other room. “You better run and put them in your pocket,” I referenced the old Marty Robbins’ song.
This seemed to placate him. He walked back into the living room. I went back to my writing and let the click of the keys envelope me. For several moments I worked, but out of the corner of my eye I could see my son, bending at the waist again and again. I swiveled in my chair and watched my son, quickly recognizing what he was doing. His tiny hands reached down, closing on reds and yellows and violets. Immediately he would straighten and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. My heart melted. I forgot about writing that day, took my son by the hand, led him outside, and played for the rest of the afternoon.
My life started when I became a father. Don’t get me wrong, I have had plenty of wonderful, meaningful experiences in my life. But I believe that raising my son has changed me more profoundly than anything.
For me the birth of my son was monumental. I was frightened when they took my wife into the operating room. The attending nurse handed me a pile of blue fabric and asked me to put them on.
The scrubs were airy and thin, true to the occasion, I dressed slowly, with ceremony. Finishing by pulling the periwinkle booties over my tennis shoes, I walked towards the heavy metallic doors, waiting and watching the doctors prep my wife. I breathed slowly. My hands shook. I received a nod from one of the nurses and pressed the weighty doors open, the silver chrome icy against my hand. I crossed a threshold. I entered the operating room a child. I emerged, following the nurse holding Cayden, a man. A father.
The reality of fatherhood grabbed me the next evening. My wife was resting and I was restless. I went to visit Cayden in the nursery, flashing my bracelet to gain entry, walking past the rows of sleeping infants. He rested in a clear poly-urethane box, lights beating down on him. He was struggling against jaundice, his skin aglow with a yellow tint. I couldn’t hold him, but I was content to just sit by my child, to think, and pray, and watch.
In those early morning hours I whispered a promise to my son…”I promise to the best dad I can. I won’t be perfect, but I promise that I will try. I will raise you right, son.”
That moment was sacred, it changed me profoundly. My son changes me in little ways every day. I experience joy and innocence and magic every day. I am not the perfect parent, but I feel, with the help of my son, that I am getting there. Cayden reminds me to pick up the rainbows in my life.