My father’s son’s son’s son

I just found out that my father’s son’s son is having a son (well, his wife is). I’m expecting a grandson! Woohoo! This is really awesome for all of us except my mother’s son’s son’s daughter, who really wanted a sister. (Actually, I think my granddaughter would have been fine with a pony, but that’s another column.)

Of course, the significance of knowing that your bloodline will extend beyond the next generation (Lord willing) is a pretty big deal. It is for most men. Bigger than the World Series, which, if you lose, you can always look forward to next year.

It was awesome news, but then my son said something that struck a chord with me: he was a little spooked at the prospect of raising a boy. He’s been at the girl-raising business for about five years and they’ve done a remarkable job. My granddaughter throws like Tulowitzki, curtsies like a princess, and laughs at everything I say. Everything. She’s a great kid.

But I got to thinking about how I managed to raise a son who turned out pretty well. He owns a business, a house, served six years on active duty with the Air Force, and has a couple of degrees to boot. His wife and he are active in the church. They have lots of friends who call me “Dad” and laugh at everything I say. Everything. Great kids.

Anyway, I tried to remember some wisdom my father passed on to me that I could impart to my son so he’d be ready when the wee lad, sits up in his crib one day, adjusts his diaper, and says, “Father, I want my own Website.”

I heard a former Marine on the radio, who served in the Korean War, telling the story about walking up to his son, who was young man at the time, and giving that boy a big hug. Then, while holding him tight, he whispered in his ear, “I am so proud of you son. And you can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”

It reminded me of the few times my father said something like that to me. In a flood of tears, I recalled so many times I could have said that to my son, and didn’t. And now, as I sit here thumping the keypad well past the official bedtime for grandfathers (9 p.m. in case you were wondering), I can only imagine what that moment will be like when my son grabs a hold of his little boy with skinned knees and dusty, tear-streaked cheeks, and whispers in his little ear: “I am so proud of you, son! You can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and my son and I talked about that little boy. As remarkable as the birth of a child is, it’s especially poignant at Christmastime to ponder the miracle of it all…the crying newborn, the mischievous toddler, the baseball-gloved little boy, the eager, pimply-faced teenage, the aspiring young man, the father, the son, and the grandson fishing, laughing, talking, hugging, loving.

So what is my sage advice for a son who has always made me proud by doing the right thing, by living a life in service to others, by laughing at everything I’ve ever said? Simple. I told him another story. It’s quite possibly one of the most profound stories I’ve ever heard.

Goes like this: a father, whose son rockets out of town with his inheritance and squanders all of it in, say, the dot com bubble or something, decides to come home and move in with his dad. When the boy returns, the story goes, the father sees him from a distance and runs to meet him, throwing his arms around him and hugging the snot out of him. The son apologizes for messing up, and then, I imagine, at that moment, the son is silent. The father—overjoyed with nothing more that his son’s presence—exclaims, “My son was lost, and now he is found! Put him in an Armani suit and let’s go to Morton’s for steak!” Or something like that.

I want to believe that after a juicy steak, cooked medium, and a glass of red wine, that joyful father hugs his lost-and-found kid, and says, “I am so proud of you, son! You can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”