Becoming a birthday boy

Looking, always looking,

With sideways glances for small openings

Of emotional availability, more so, willingness

To join them in the fray of their simple world

Of play and pranks,

Chasing them to retrieve my pilfered hat,

Letting them wrestle my weary body to the floor,

Kneeling down to indulge the mounting of my monkey-barred shoulders

My sons can see in my eyes when I welcome their overtures.

I suppose yesterday I was more in tune with my boys’ inclinations.

Our family was celebrating Josh’s birthday

And I, decidedly, let him have his whimsical way

An unusual break from the formality of fitting into the pack,

Taking turns in the twists and turns of family life,

Especially when 7 are vying and crying for attention

In the messy nest of the nuclear unit.

When Josh paused to consider his next wanting,

I turned my ear to listen for his broken speech

Attempting to put his dreams into dictation

And I, at his beck and call,

Wanted nothing more than to translate

His dictations into drama,

To realize even his wildest whimsies.

There was much chaos.

We are, of course, talking about this boy and his brother

Full of piss and vinegar always looking for a higher high,

Their one-upmanship of horseplay has no ceiling

--or so it seems to this 44 year old curmudgeon--

Ascending to a crashing crescendo, a fever pitch

--to me--

But my boy summed up this spasmodic day best

Head tilted chin to chest last night on his sullied pillow:

“Dad, this was the best day ever.” 

“It was a great day, buddy.” I reply with quasi-guile.

Nursing a slightly more nuanced narrative of mixed reviews,

My inner voice effortlessly fashions a more complex conclusion:

“This was a long and tiring, but good day.”

Which is why emotional energy and relational willingness

Can stubbornly refuse to make eye contact with my sons on many days

Knowing they are looking for more than co-habitation,

Simple transactions of survival; 

they pine for interaction.

This middle-age man wants the same, 

but opts to settle like sediment too often, like wine left on its dregs. 

But after a night’s sleep and some time to muse in the dawn of this new day

I never regret spending myself on my boy’s behalf,

Shouting down the inner voice of reason and 

Becoming the unreasonably incarnational parent.

If the Word became flesh and dwelt among us

Then the least a dad can do—on his boy’s 9^thbirthday, no less—

Is to become like my sons and dwell among them,

Taking on their attributes and aspirations, if only in short spurts,

becoming obedient unto death,

Even death under a sharp-elbowed pile-on.

Happiest of birthdays, Joshua David, my beautiful boy.

I hope I can keep up with Kenosis my whole life long.

So keep looking, never stopping looking

Until my eyes meet yours and submit to your construct. 

You deserve this kind of dad.