“My son.”

 

These two words didn’t roll off my tongue easily.  The first time I said it, it felt awkward.  As if something didn’t fit.

      

“My son.”

      

It felt strange.  As though I was reading a script of a play.  I had to practice saying it many, many times.

      

“My son… My son… My son…”

 

I started saying it the day I found out that I had a baby boy through my wife’s ultrasound test, and I kept saying it to myself daily.

 

       Finally, one historic morning, my son was born.

 

       The nurse came out of the delivery room, holding a tiny human being wrapped in a white sheet, his chubby face screaming to the entire world, his small hands and delicate fingers shaking nervously.  “Baby Sanchez?” the lady in the green surgical robe asked, looking at the room full of expectant fathers.

 

I stood up, holding my breath.

 

She showed me my baby.

 

       “My son,” I whispered–the line I’ve been rehearsing for months now.

 

The little guy screamed, “Waaaaaaaaaah!”

 

But in my heart, I heard him cry out, “Daaaaaaaaaad!”

 

I’m sure that everyone in that room will swear to their graves that they didn’t hear my baby say that.  But I don’t care.  I called him, “my son,” and he called me “Dad”, and that’s that.  End of story.

 

People ask me, “What did you feel at that precise moment?” and I cannot even begin to answer.  I’m supposed to be a writer and therefore a master of words–yet I grope with my adjectives.  More than that, I grope with my emotions.

 

“Joyful” isn’t powerful enough.

 

“Bliss” isn’t sweet enough.

 

“Peaceful” isn’t calm enough.

 

“Happy” isn’t intense enough.

 

After my baby was whisked away to the nursery, I got back to my seat in the waiting room.  I shut my eyes.  But tears escaped them anyway.

 

And then out of the blue, my eighty-year old father lumbered in.

 

As we always do, we embraced.

 

       “Dad,” I whispered.

 

       “My son,” I heard his heart say to mine.

 

And suddenly, the past years of my life folded up into the present and I was now the baby bundled in white, and my father was standing over me.

 

“My son,” he said.

 

“Daaaaaaaaaaaad!” I cried my little lungs out.

 

At that point, for some reason, I knew I was going to be great father.

 

The eighty-year old man in front of me seemed to agree.  He smiled and we both walked out of the room in search of the tiny human being that will change our lives forever.

 

Fast forward many years later.  Today, Dad is in Heaven.  And that baby bundled in white is now a rockin’ 14 year-old.

 

Today, whenever I pray, I hear those two words in my heart: “My son.”  And I smile and tell Him, “Dad.”

 

What a glorious feeling.

 

 

May your dreams come true,

 

 

Bo Sanchez

 

PS. Want To Know More About Homeschooling Your Kids?  My wife and I have been homeschooling our own children for 9 years now–and it’s been an amazing experiencing.  This Saturday, I’m giving a Homeschooling seminar, March 22, from 8am to 12noon, in Mandaluyong.  Come join me.  Explore this option.  For details, click the link below:

 

Hi Bo, Tell Me More About Homeschooling