Got you, Bud

I should’ve been in bed an hour ago.

I’m worn out: tired from my day and still feeling the affects of putting in 21 hours of overtime last week.

But there’s just something peaceful about watching him on the couch.

In the middle of “Rescue Bots,” I heard it: that sweet little snore.

Most snoring is loud and obnoxious, but there is something about his that I never mind.

The baseball game on ESPN emits a soft glow in the living that gently lights up his face. His chubby cheeks pressed against the couch pillow, and his hand still holding onto the Daisy Duck water bottle he requested after dinner.

I watch him, and I find my mind drifting to a distant future. I want him to stay little forever, but my thoughts wander as I ponder on what he will be like as he continues to grow.

He’s stubborn.

He gets that from his momma.

She got it from her daddy.

He’s a natural leader. He takes over situations, and kids just follow along.

He’s funny.

I take that back.

He’s hilarious.

His wit is quick, and his jokes and comments are well-timed. I’d like to think he gets that from me.

Maybe not, but at least he looks like me. I can always hold onto that one.

I turned the TV off, and the living room is illuminated only by the glow of the porch light. His snoring has gotten louder as he falls deeper into his slumber.

You know that whole “Days go slow, but years go fast” thing?

I never understood it until he came along.

He’s been on this Earth for four and half years, and it seems like yesterday I was holding him and watching the snow fall outside the hospital window. He was a day old, and I was in amazement of the miracle I held close to my chest. I sang him “Black,” my favorite Pearl Jam song, and he snored that little snore.

He’s much taller now: all legs and all boy.

He comes home from school with a pocket full of rocks and new bruises on his legs.

He plays hard, and he loves hard.

I hope that’s another thing he got from me.

I tell him each day that I love him, I am proud of him, and I am thankful to be his dad.

I made him a promise as we walked together down the long hospital hallway for the first time. I promised that there would never be a day of his life when he would wonder if I loved him.

I intend to keep that promise.

I intend to love him hard.

It’s been a challenge. He’s been a challenge. Our personalities do not always line up, but I am learning how to see life through his blue eyes.

I know I should carry him to his bed, but tonight I need to hold him.

He’ll learn about September 11, 2001 years from now in history class.

He won’t know of the terror we felt that day.

He won’t know of the sadness that gripped our hearts like a vice as we learned of the fate of so many Americans.

He won’t know of the nightmares I had in my tiny dorm room.

I will never forget.

I guess that is why I am watching and listening to him sleep tonight; his innocence brings me peace.

In a few moments, I will pick him up off the couch.

His bouncing curls will be matted from the pillow, and he will stir.

He will inquisitively mumble, “Daddy?” in a voice filled with sleep. I will respond, “I have got you, Bud.”

I will always have you, Bud.