I am Here
Celebrating the 31st birthday of my first born son
My wife had a look on her face that I’d seen while shopping for furniture. It was a focused expression that showed up just before a purchase.
The problem was, we weren’t shopping, and she wasn’t looking at furniture. We were in our own living room enjoying the presence of a toddler who belonged to somebody else.
Wanting kids of her own had been a subject of conversation over the previous months. She was ready. I was thirty-four, going on fourteen, and not so sure. While my wife saw adorable, easy-going, blond innocence at play, I saw a responsibility that was beyond my comprehension.
The child was the son of my lifelong friend Skip and his wife Jill. They’d joined us for wine and a home-cooked meal overlooking the blooming rhododendrons that surrounded our porch in the spring. I thought the visit was over when we saw them to the front door, said goodnight, blew out the candles and locked up for the evening. After getting in bed, however, we had the odd feeling that not all of the guests had departed.
It felt as though another presence had joined us in the room, as if to say . . . I’m here. But the visitor was not foreign or unfamiliar. Similar to how you might meet someone for the first time, but feel you’ve known them your whole life, we were having that kind of experience in spirit.
That night, my son Nate was conceived.
Seven months later after a 40-hour labor that was complicated by a cord around the neck, Nate arrived in a successful home-birth into my waiting hands. I rocked him in my arms and wept at the miracle of new life, my fathering fears grounded by his weight in my hands.
We kept our son Nate close by. He spent most of his days sleeping in a body sling we traded between us, and when he could hold his own head up rode often in an infant backpack I used around the house.
One day I was washing a sink full of dishes with Nate watching from behind. I suddenly felt him tracing lines on my back with his little finger, looping invisible patterns on the gray sweatshirt I wore.
Hours later when I took off the carrier, Nate had mysterious black lines all over his hands. The same black lines were also on the frame of the backpack. Perplexed, I looked back at where I’d been standing at the sink. To the immediate right was a shelf that held a set of blue coffee mugs, The Joy of Cooking, and a white porcelain pitcher containing various highlighters, pens and markers. Upon closer examination I found that a black permanent sharpie was now clutched in Nate’s right hand, the liberated cap in his left. He’d somehow plucked the marker out of the pitcher while I was preoccupied with soapy water.
Removing my shirt I confirmed my suspicion that the innocent finger-tracing I assumed was taking place across my shoulders was, in actuality, a large-scale documentation of Nate’s first signature in permanent black ink.
It was the pre-verbal equivalent of “Nate was here” on my back.
Brave and adventurous, Nate was the perfect first-child for the street acrobat I was at the time. He loved to be tossed around, flipped, balanced, and flung into the air like an ascending skydiver. He was so accustomed to participating in physical stunts with me that making spontaneous appearances in the middle of my street shows was easeful and natural.
But Nate was never a show off like me. He gravitated toward challenges and free expression, not for attention, but for its own sake.
When he was six he took a liking to a yellow dress that lived in the playroom dress-up box. For a few months he wore it everywhere. Smiles, frowns or sideways looks from other shoppers, diners, or pedestrians when he was out with us were all taken in equal stride. Nate knew what he wanted to wear and donned it proudly, no matter anyone’s opinion.
I am here.
From an early age, Nate’s sport of choice was hockey. His chosen position—goalie of course. A discipline that demanded skill, focused presence, and the determination to prevent the opponent from sending a speeding plastic bullet past his watch into protected territory. Game after game I’d sit in the stands, the nervous dad whose kid the rest of the team depended on. Nate brought full commitment and presence to his team practices, games and solo training sessions. The only thing that allowed me to withstand the stench of his goalie gear in the back seat driving to 4 am practices was the freshness of his youthful determination to be the best goalie he could be.
I am here.
I’ve watched my son over the years use his presence for good, hosting friends in his home, showing up in times of need for his sister, being a caring man with the women in his life, demonstrating on the streets against questionable government policy or injustice, adopting a pup in need of a home, donating time or funds to causes he believes in, riding 200 kilometers over two days to raise money for cancer in honor of this mom.
Today as a reporter and investigative journalist in Vancouver he applies his curiosity to learning about his city and competently informs citizens of the local issues impacting the town he’s grown up in and cares for with his attention.
I am here.
Last week I got a call from Nate, asking if he could come over for dinner. We have a standing weekly family night that welcomes my two older kids and their spouses, younger son still at home, my niece who lives in the area and the occasional inclusion of friends. It was two-days before the weekly gathering, but Nate was feeling drawn to spend the evening with us.
After dinner Nate was sitting on the couch with his younger brother who was facing some personal challenges, heart wide open in the bloom of a new relationship and feeling the raw exposure of vulnerability. I watched as Nate listened in depth, soft and clear, and responded with the kind of balanced wise counsel that would steady the crew of the most storm-tossed ship.
He took his brother into his arms and held him tight, an anchor in the roil of feelings while the dark clouds settled and safe passage came in sight.
Having followed his instincts, Nate was right there in a moment when his brother needed him.
I am here.
As a parent, it’s a miracle to watch your kids grow—having the opportunity to witness and observe who they are becoming, but also the enduring mark of who they’ve been all along.
After 31 years, and even before his birth, I am here lives at the foundation of Nate’s character. Perhaps part of that is knowing that we are here for him, which is of course fundamental to what makes families, communities, and friendships strong.
It’s said that Benjamin Franklin was inspired by the Iroquois Confederacy while developing ideas for colonial unity and the U.S. government, especially the “bundle of arrows” principle, depicting the fragility of a single arrow subjected to stress in contrast to the resilient strength of a bundle of arrows bound together.
Attending Nate’s birthday party bash at the local roller rink last night I saw the makings of his own bundle of friends, community members, the strength and presence of his partner, even as he continues to be an arrow in our family confederacy.
Invoked by the presence of an innocent child and the longing heart of his mother, my son’s attuned, steady presence is an irreplaceable part of our clan, and now emerging as a welcome contribution to the world.
Happy Birthday Nate.
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Beautifully heartwarming!
I am here. Yes Nate, you are and you are beautiful and kind and generous and sound so cool.
Thanks Rick for introducing us to him. You love him very much.