Raising Daddies

When my own sons became fathers, I began to see them in a new light.
 
I knew that in all probability, each of my sons would get married and have babies of their own.

When I was a young mom raising them, it seemed so far off into the future. But I am in that future now and have been for the last 18+ years - see, my oldest grandson is 18.

And now all four of my boys are daddies.

It's such a wonderful thing to see them caring for their wives – providing, protecting, defending, and now raising their own children
 
I spent a good part of my life raising daddies. I remember when these dads were little boys. I remember those days as if I am still living them. Partly because my boys trust me with their children and I get to spend time with my grandchildren. Every time I have them, it's like jumping into a time machine and traveling back into the '80s. My oldest son's little girls are little feminine replicas of their daddy. My second son’s children each have a different image of their daddy stamped into their being. There is no mistaking to whom each of these children belong.

And now with my youngest two boys having their first babies – I see them in their children as well. It's just such an overwhelming thing.
 
Yet, my memory of raising daddies is as crisp and clear as a beautiful fall day. My grandchildren just bring it into sharper focus - if that's possible.
 
I love how they remind me that I can never erase seasons of my life from my memory. I love how, when I look into their faces, oftentimes I feel as if I'm staring into the faces of my boys. It's like having time with my little robust warriors all over again - except the girls hold dolls and tufted kitties rather than sticks and random car parts. But the boys? It's ALL the same. They're boys. I love, too, how they show me that some seasons of life are so indelibly etched, it's very easy to remember and go back as if no time has passed at all.
 
As far as these grown-up daddies are concerned, I can still hear their little voices and see their little faces. And sometimes when I look into their faces today, I stare at the strong jawlines when they hold their newborns or read stories to their children. I study the broad shoulders on which their children sometimes rest or sit and obviously feel so safe and secure on daddy's shoulders.  I gaze at the big masculine hands they use to wipe a tear from a child's face and I am captured by these tall adult masculine men - yet, I also see the little boys they once were.
 
The little boys who were sometimes afraid and wandered into my room at night and climbed into our bed - on my side. I think about the "nighttime" pallet I kept tucked away, yet close enough, because they, plus the two of us, couldn't fit very well or very comfortably in our bed. My two oldest, when they were little, were always in competition as to who would wake up first during the night - because the one who wandered in first got the bed - the other one got the floor. I slept many nights during that short season of life with my arm dangling from the side of the mattress holding a little boy's hand.
 
It's so true, some memories are as crisp and clear as a beautiful fall day.
 
And sometimes when I hear their voices today, I listen intently to the deep sound that comes out. Wow. Where did those baritones come from? And I hear, "Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?"
 
I remember their little voices - the coos, the baby giggles - that grew into childhood squeals of rough boy-times and then of course, the I-sound-like-a-woman days. Oh the frustration in their voices when they answered the phone, "No ma'am, this is not Mrs. Broggi. But I'll get her for you." Indelibly etched. I always told them that "sounding like a woman" preceded "sounding like a man." I told them it was a good thing because it meant sounding like a man was coming soon – very soon. At the time, they didn't believe me.
 
Well now, they all sound like men. They act like men. They look like men. Real men. Not the sissy types. Not the wimpy types. Not the feminized kind. Not the womanizing types. Not the carousing types.  Not the domineering types. Not the lazy types. No, they are real men.
 
They are the kind of men who know and love God. The kind of men who know how to sweat and work hard. The kind of men who knew how to find and pursue good wives. The kind of men who would lay down their lives for their wives and now, their children.
 
The kind of men who also knew how to leave their mother and father and cleave to their wives. The kind who know how to provide for and protect their families.

So thankful God allowed me to raise daddies.
 
Daddies
by Edgar Guest

I would rather be the daddy
Of a romping, roguish crew,
Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie
And a little girl or two,
Than the monarch of a nation
In his high and lofty seat
Taking empty adoration
From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses
As at night to me they run,
Than to be the king who misses
All the simpler forms of fun.
When his dreary day is ending
He is dismally alone,
But when my sun is descending
There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming;
I must walk a quiet street,
But when once they see me coming
Then on joyous, flying feet
They come racing to me madly
And I catch them with a swing
And I say it proudly, gladly,
That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places,
You may boast of pomp and power,
Men may turn their eager faces
To the glory of an hour,
But give me the humble station
With its joys that long survive,
For the daddies of the nation
Are the happiest men alive.