For Dad

My dad holding me on my blessing day.

Dad holding Joyce when she was just 7 days old. You can see how small Joyce is compared to Dad's hands.

Dad you're notorious for your comments on infants. I've often heard you say they are boring. I think you've claimed your own children held no special interest for you until they turned two and could talk. And then I think you mostly loved the kind of hilarious antics that little toddlers just discovering the world come up with and the fiestyness of figuring out their independence. If mom was oohing and aawing over a relatives' infant, you would loudly proclaim your disinterest and tell people that you didn't care for babies. All of this is done with a high-degree of ironic self-awareness. After all, you are the father of eight children. And despite your aversion to small babies, I know you were starting to get anxious for grandchildren.

A year ago on Father's Day, John and I found out in a Fairfield Inn in the middle of Florence South Carolina, that we were going to have a baby. The first person I called was you. You had been wondering out loud to any relative if you were ever going to have a grandchild and even though it was really early to be announcing a pregnancy, I wanted you to be one of the first to know. You were in the car with my Aunt Janice driving through Sardine Canyon on your way home from Grandpa's. I could hear the excitement in your voice.

So when I gave birth to your first grandchild in the dead of a freezing midwest winter, I knew you were excited and happy - even when I called you at 6am. But I didn't expect you, with your proclaimed disinterest in infants to come and meet my baby when you did. During that first week after Joyce was born, while on the phone with John and I, you told us you always tell your employees to take as much time off work as they can after they've had a baby. The time is so precious and goes so quickly you said. You told us that you regretted not taking more time with each of your children just after they were born.

And then a week after Joyce was born you took a red-eye flight to Indianapolis so you could spend just a little over 18 hours with us. Watching you hold my little girl and knowing the sleep it cost you to do that meant so much to me dad. And now that Joyce is even just a little older and can smile and respond to people, I love watching her smile and grin at you. Your tenderness with Joyce makes me realize how much you love not only her, but the rest of us too.

As we were hiking up Crystal Lake yesterday, with Joyce strapped to John, I imagined that most of Joyce's memories of her grandpa would be outside with him, hiking and seeing the grandeur of the world. Your passion and love for the beauties of the world will be a priceless gift to my children. Thank you and I love you dad.