A Letter to Jamison on his first birthday

After debating numerous topics, ranging from the recession to Sarah Palin's criticism of Michelle Obama, and even pondering a Turkey Day "Appreciation" post, I decided to begin my blogging career with a topic near and dear to my heart--my one year old son Jamison. Today, December 1st is his birthday.  As I recount this past year--and yes Lord does time fly, many things pop to mind--so in honor of this year, I write a letter to the happiest little boy on earth.

Dear Jamison,
   One year ago today you entered this world, popping out the womb while your mother used words that would actually be allowed in a PG-13 film and I sat bravely (albeit behind the birth canal and in a corner chair) waiting to hear welcome you into this world . I'll never forget taking that first glimpse of you--covered in what appeared to be leftovers from an overly saucy pasta dish (or something to that effect), passing out and waking up 23 seconds later to see your hairy head, big eyes and tiny body. The look on your face reminded me of the faces I saw during the Health  Care debate--angry for no apparent reason. Yet unlike some of the folk I saw, you already appeared to actually have something on your mind. Ok politics can wait for the next post. Back to the lecture at hand....And your mother, my God she had never looked so beautiful as she smiled down at you.
   On the night you came home, I remember wanting to stamp you "return to sender." (But after doing some measurements, figured that it would impossible to put you back into mommy's belly).  MY GOD you cried, for good reason, you were cold, hungry, tired and even worse, some punk kid name Justin Beiber was all over our TV.  You kept us up all night, and I didn't sleep until after I took Ryann to school. My thought, "there is no way I can do this every day--it can't be like this everyday. And it has not been. Aside from my battles with your onesies and the ongoing (598 and counting) battle with poop (wagering tip--if ever Vegas lays odds and parent vs. poop--always bet on poop), you have been a true joy, always happy, always smiling. 
    As I think about this year and the trials (the few) and joys (the many) that Jamison Maxwell England has brought to my life, I am amazed that you, the baby, the son, have not only enhanced my already blessed life, but that indeed you the pupil have taught me the teacher two lessons that perhaps only having a baby could do. (Its amazing how God can use even the tiniest thing, or in this case, person, to teach us valuable lessons).  I share these lessons with you and hope that through me you will see how valuable they are.
   Lesson 1. 2:34 am, 3:52 am, 4:07 am; 5:52 am--all times that you woke up crying for a battle or a hug. Poop up your back, poop outside your diaper, poop on me, poop suspended in mid-air looking for a landing spot, here a poop there a poop everywhere a poop poop. Onesies that somehow looked like twosies, onesies that wouldn't come off, onesies that wouldn't go on, onesies covered in poop that wouldn't come off. Onesies that served as a destination for the poop suspended in mid-air.  96 consecutive days of watching "Your baby can read"--cat, dog, arms up, eyes, nose, clap, gorilla, elephant, reach, reaching, wave, waving, arms, arms down, eyes, mouth, hi, baby, tiger, toes, and two other words that I have tried to remove from my mental rolodex. Ah, the joys of parenthood. Yet, there has never been a moment, not for a nanosecond, where I yelled out why God have you forsaken me? Or wished for a day without poop, a onesie or hearing Graham say "hi."  By no means I am superdad, and yes, I have had my moments of despair. But here''s the deal little guy--love always wins. As you go through life and deal with the seemingly insane people, the stresses of living in this money hungry, self-centered  world often void of kind words and deeds and overpopulated with people lacking any sense, know that love will sustain you. God knows its the only thing that have helped me survive the poop, the onesies and the random patterns of sleep. Even poop can't beat love. Love for God, love for family and friends, love for others, and love for yourself--I hope and pray that as you go through this journey we call life, love will always be present in your heart.
   Lesson 2: Don't worry be happy. Recession. Depression. Oppression. Suppression. Repression, everything but impression. We got a Congress that can't, check that--won't, work together in spite of their constant declarations of how they "love" America (note: loving your country means working for the people who live in it), 10% unemployment, a culture defined by the jiggliness of Kim Kardashian's backside, the fake "reality" of reality shows, angry white men on TV and the radio, MeBron James and the "Decision" and we are supposed to always be afraid of something, I'm just not sure what. Maybe Bobby McFerrin was onto something--and you have already taken to his heart his words--Don't Worry, Be Happy. Thanks for greeting me with a smile and showing me all the really matters is the here and now and the loved ones we get to share our life with.  Keep smiling, daddy loves you. Enjoy your special day, don't cry at the barber shop, don't be too messy with your cake and keep on being you. 
Love you,
Daddy