The Gift of Reassurance

8:23 AM 29 Dec 1993. A third generation only-son arrives healthy, loved and ready to carry on the family name. “We got our boy,” his mother states behind tears and a tired smile — and we name him Anthony.

Mothers do most of the raising in a lot of families, and ours was no different. I worked long hours to provide and build a home, but it never seemed like enough of a contribution and I envied the closeness she had with the kids. Our two girls and new baby boy were her heart and her life, and sometimes I felt like “all” I did was provide. I wished I had that closeness with our new son that sometimes escaped me in my overriding focus on building a career. I thought maybe I wasn’t a good dad at all; maybe I wasn’t capable of the type of love she felt and gave them. Maybe I didn’t have the right heart for my dear son who was now already past his second birthday. But then life changed.

It was a normal Saturday afternoon, summertime in the Midwest. The duplex we shared with our young landlord was on the last block of a dead end which transitioned into a nice city park which we were planning on going to a bit later. Maybe the city would be giving free ice cream to the kids again. Our little kitchen was at the back of the house, with a small window overlooking the backyard that needed mowed. I was preparing lunch today since Mom was at work — spaghetti again. The kids and I were all in the kitchen, discussing who knows what and enjoying the rare togetherness.

The conversation fades and we all begin doing other things and focusing on our…