I think often of what this means. I look at my son in awe. I was once him. My father was once me.
To be honest, I feel shame.
When I was 15, I challenged my dad to a fist fight. He whacked me with the vacuum hose in return––man that fucking hurt. I still remember that one, pa. It stung. Last time I ever did that.
At the time, my old man was 66 years old.
And then I look at my son.
One day––maybe––he’ll be that punk ass kid; one day he’ll raises his fists against me.
I sing to my son. I change his diapers. I wipe his ass. Literally, I scoop shit out of all the little crevasses of his groin and his balls. As crazy as it sounds, I love it. It’s amazingly intimate and surreal.
My pa must have felt this way once upon a time. I too was so vulnerable; I too was so dependent.
And one day, this little man will be my intellectual superior.
‘Tis is the story of father and son. What a fucking trip. I’m excited, scared and ashamed all at once.
Thanks pa. I can never repay you for all that you’ve done.
Your Son Matt.