This is My Boy, I Got This by Luke Granato
My son, Samson (known to all as “Sonny”) has given me countless little occasions that qualify as “welcome to dad-hood” instances. Changing the first diaper in the hospital, the first bleary-eyed early morning feeding, getting puked on, getting smiled at, eliciting laughter, first mini-hoop dunk…the list can go on and on. I have enjoyed all of these experiences with my son and each one has brought me to a new level of dad-ness. It was not until nine months into Sonny’s life, however, that I had my first, “This is my boy, I got this,” moment.
It was a Sunday evening in February and as is custom, it was family dinner night. Sonny, my wife, Katie, our golden retriever, Blue, and I were at Katie’s parents’ for dinner. We were joined by Katie’s brother’s family.
After we finished eating, Katie’s mother, Betty, brought Sonny into the kitchen to prep his bottle. Betty is everything you could ask for in a grandmother. She is loving, active, caring, protective, and any number of additional descriptions. She spends Mondays at our house with Sonny and loves every minute of it. We are very lucky.
That night, as Betty was carrying Sonny past a countertop, he reached down and grazed the top of an open tomato can left out accidentally. Naturally, he sliced his left index finger and let out a blood curdling scream. Katie and I rushed into the kitchen to find a bloody finger and a shaken grandmother.
I Take Charge
I scooped Sonny and sent his mom out of the kitchen (Katie, who very rarely lacks composure and is basically awesome at everything, was panicking just a little). The slice was deep enough to bleed an annoying amount but nothing a band-aid and a few days wouldn’t heal. I brought Sonny over to the sink and rinsed his hand off.
As Sonny continued to scream – now more angry that his bottle was in sight but not in his mouth than in pain – I bandaged his finger and allowed Katie to take him. With bottle happily in hand, Sonny couldn’t have cared less about his finger.
That night, surrounded by parents of different experiences and generations, it was my son who needed me. Now as I write and reflect on this moment, it’s not nearly as dramatic as it seemed. At the time however, the message to my family, and more significantly to myself, was loud and clear: “This is my boy, I got this.”