Pride Before This Fall

A lifetime ago, my wife and I were greeted with the news that we would be parents. That lifetime continues with the news that our son, who was just a spark way back then, has been accepted at the college of his choice. To be fair, it is one of the colleges of his choice, but it was the wait for that acceptance that was driving some of us mad. Not all of us at the exact same time, but the doubt that began to creep in as days and weeks fell away and his friends were getting letters welcoming them to the world of higher education, it brought a little stress into our little home.
When the call came, however, it came in the form of a text. And an e-mail. In the middle of a day while I was up to my midsection in first graders and their issues. My son, the college senior, was sharing news with me that I had begun to imagine might never come. It was not that I doubted my son's abilities or capacities. I know that he will rise to the challenge that is set in front of him, even if his mother and I sometimes have to remind him that there is a challenge right in front of him and could he please begin to negotiate it before it becomes a crisis. Please. The doubt I felt was the same doubt that I felt way back in high school, before I had a girl friend. I doubted that I ever would have a girl friend. I began to imagine a life that didn't include that particular joy. Later, when my friends began to pair off and get married and I was living an absurdly single life, I doubted that I would ever find love. Settling down at the ripe old age of thirty gave me pause again: would I be a dad before I became withered and gray? More withered and more gray? I needn't have worried. It happened before I was forty. I became a father when I was thirty-five and at that moment I felt as supremely confident and proud as I ever had in my life. I felt as if a life mission had been fulfilled.
I felt that way again when I received the text that told me my son had been accepted to a college. In case you're wondering or sharpening that critical ax, I know just how lame this response is. I didn't do the work. I didn't carry the kid for nine months. I helped with homework and I changed diapers and I did a lot of things that made this moment possible, but the only one who made it inevitable was my son. This is a chapter from the back end of my book, but from the beginning of my son's. I get that. It hasn't stopped me from feeling like I accomplished something. We accomplished something. Mom, dad and son.
Mostly my son. And I couldn't be more proud. Well, maybe if I had more to do with it.