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.

Previous post: "Celebramus Leonila"

I taught you to be

When I'm feeling blue
All I have to do
Is take a look at you
Then I'm not so blue
When you're close to me
I can feel your heart beat
I can hear you breathing
In my ear
Wouldn't you agree?
Baby, you and me
We've got a groovy kind of love

Dear Andre,

I used to sing my favorite song by Phil Collins to you and Nikkei when you were babies especially when holding you in my arms to put you to sleep. Now that you're 19 and with my back bone more brittle, I wouldn't even entertain the thought.

Many things have happened, though, following those lullaby years:

I taught you Math

      but did we ever find x?

I taught you how to swim

      no depth can overcome you now
I taught you how to play the guitar
      now you play like a maestro
Did I teach you how to sing and dance?
      No. But aren't you glad I didn't?

I taught you badminton, basketball and tennis

      you showed you're an animal in sports 

I taught you how to drive

      you're better than many I know

I taught you my skills in photography

      now it's: "Dre, how's this?"

I taught you things not because I want you to be like me

I taught you skills because it's a father's job to teach a son

You may grow up to be like me but that's not my intention

I do not want you to be like me because that's just a mediocrity

I want you to be like Jesus because that's the best you can ever be

There are many things that I may have failed to teach you
      Like doing the dishes properly and fixing things at home
      Or putting away shoes, socks and shirts and nose-blown tissues
There's more time to learn those skills
      But your destiny for success aren't grounded on them
   
Happy 19th, my son.
Enjoy the last year of your teen ride.
There's a lot more to learn.

-Daddad