Our first born turns 29 today. Watching him grow from infant to boy to man to husband to father has been one of the most amazing things in my life.
Twenty-nine years ago this morning, I checked Miss Brenda into the small hospital in Dumfries, Virginia and joined a half dozen other expectant fathers in the small waiting area just outside the delivery room. This was before the time of free father access in delivery rooms. This was even before accurate sonogram determination of the child's sex. We sat and nervously thumbed through month's old copies of Field & Stream and National Geographic, waiting to hear the outcome of our wives' labors.
When I finally heard that I had a son, I was overwhelmed with the mixed emotions of elation and dread of responsibility. I was overjoyed at the prospect of a man child with whom to share my outdoors and sports passions. I was scared to death that I wouldn't measure up when it came to raising a boy to be a man. I'm sure I'm not the only man who has felt that particular mixture of joy and dread.
To wake up this morning to the realization that my little boy is now a 29 year old man, husband, and father is quite sobering. The good news is, despite my well-documented weaknesses at son-rearing, Number One is doing just fine in the manhood, husbandhood, and fatherhood department.
Happy Birthday, Joshua!