Hey Kid,
I know I'm getting to this later in the day than I usually do, but I couldn't let today go by without writing something for your 20th(!) birthday. I've been going back and forth, trying to figure out what I want to say to you today. If you were here, I'm sure I'd be telling you how proud of you I am, no matter who you were or what you were doing with yourself. I mean, far be it for me to criticize any life choice you'd be making right now. When I was your age, I was struggling to decide if I wanted to be in school, and if I didn't what I could realistically do with my life; I was piercing my ears; I was dying my hair stupid colors; I was generally immature and terrified of the prospect of being a failure while also doing nothing at all to prevent myself becoming said failure. I was a mess.
So, I guess if I had any words of wisdom for a 20-year old son, it would just be that no matter how unsettled your life feels now, that doesn't mean your life is going to be that way forever. Except, you know, none of that applies in this case. So, some 6 years after I was a mess, you were born. In the intervening 6 years I straightened myself out (mostly): found a job I mostly liked, stopped dying my hair stupid colors, stopped piercing my ears. Your mom and I were married for just about 2 years after being mostly on, occasionally off, as a couple since we were both 18. You came screaming into our lives on a beautiful spring night that led into the craziest of late nights. Your mom and I got a quick glimpse of you as we were ushered through the NICU to her room in the maternity ward. I slept like the dead on the pull out chair next to her bed that night and spent the next morning wanting to come see you more than anything in the world, but afraid to do that because I knew your mom couldn't, and I didn't want to make her jealous or upset her. I'm pretty sure it was your Gaga who convinced me to come to you. I was glad I did, because I got do one of your first diaper changes in your isolette.
You know, I've never really thought about it, but this day, 20 years ago, that was the first time I got to experience father-son alone time. I can remember talking to you. I don't know what I said, but I remember being so terrified that I was going to break you. You were so, so, so tiny. Stick thin. Honestly? Kinda weird looking. But that's okay, you weren't exactly done cooking, you know what I mean? Regardless, I know I wanted to kiss you so much it hurt. I'd only get the chance to do that once, I think - on the day before you passed away when I got to hold you.
Ok, enough reminiscing - your mom and I are doing Ice Cream for Aaron again this year. We had some people ask, and we'd discussed it ourselves before that even. You've been able to put a smile on so many faces doing this - and we love knowing that there are people just walking in off the street, who are surprised by free ice cream. It gives us a brief moment to remember you with other people, and to spread a tiny bit of the joy you brought us to others.
I'll wrap this up before I get too long-winded. 20 years feels like a good time to look back and take stock of everything we've been able to do in this world because of you:
- Raised over $5,000 for the Bryn Mawr NICU in your honor.
- Raised over $50,000 for the March of Dimes to research and prevent premature birth.
- Collected countless toys, games, clothes, diapers, formula, coloring and activity books, crayons, markers, etc. for families in crisis.
- So, so, so many Random Acts of Kindness. There were so many people that did things to help others, just because we were silly enough to ask them, and so that they could maybe take a second and talk about you. It was honestly really cool.
- Provided ice cream for kids in our development, water ice for kids at three different church VBS events, and provided ice cream for a whole bunch our neighbors at a local ice cream shop.
I'm sure there something else I'm missing there. It's been a lot, kid. We've been busy since you left. 😁
Ok. That'll do. I should get back to my regularly scheduled life. I'll check in in a few more years.
With love,
Dad
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