My son, my Teacher

Hey Andre,

Prior to you being born into this world, I applied for a job I wasn’t ready for. It was sometime March of that year and the position was fatherhood. With zero experience, the only credentials that I offered were: the live-in 'seminars' with my own father - the audio of which came through one ear and out the other; and, special skills - Integral Calculus and dancing (I lied hoping it would help).

The processing took 9 whole months. It was equally exciting and daunting at the same measure not knowing what to do next after your arrival. 

Who will tell me if? 

What goes with which? 

Do I smell it to be sure? Where?

When the call came, telling me my fatherhood has been approved, I saw you literally come out of your mother’s tummy. Then, just then, "Bloody heck! You’re so bloody!" I couldn’t help telling myself while holding the camera.

But it all became clear to me. That day, I knew: nobody else will teach me how to be a father but you.

You taught me that a baby smile is a priceless relief from a hard day’s work.

You taught me that a smirk could either mean a poop or a fart and that I need to summon all my senses for the answer. 

You taught me a cry is call for a cuddle or comfort or food.

I learned to make better of good things like coffee and Excel.

And what mattered most, you taught me to be the best that I can be.

And you know what? I’d like to think that I was an excellent student. Because I became a father the second time around, nearly two years after. I merited a B+ to say the least.

I am still learning, though. But at 61, I don’t think a third-time fatherhood is a prospect. Being a dad -it just doesn’t end, does it? You still have to teach me how to pull that perfect shot without accidentally burning my arm. And how does that down-swing, follow thru work again?

Teach me, master Andre. I’d like to learn more from you. 

Happy 25th birthday, buddy! You know I love you.

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