On Tenzin's first birthday, I would love nothing more than to wax poetic about the last year of his life - and I'm sure all of you would expect me to do nothing less. But contrary to what the date says, my son is not one.
Come Sunday, post-Staurday's Oktoberfiestapalooza (much cooler than a Mutant Ninja Turtle Bash...we have brats and salsa...seriously, this is the theme), I will be more than happy to write a nice long post about fatherhood/childhood/parenthood, reflecting deeeeeeeeply on all attributes therein. But until then, here I am: a confused man wondering what in the hell happened to 365 days of my life.
While part of me is relieved that, for once, this confusion is not beer-related (oh how I miss you, 1998), I am profoundly stumped by my father's block. Father's block is like writer's block only the father doesn't understand what creative barrier is blocking his ability to describe the 365 days of human life he helped to create.
This should be easy. This should flow. This should evoke emotion - both reflective for those with children and optimistic for those without.
Basically, this should be natural.
Because in my mind,
there is no difference between this:
Happy Birthday, piglet.
Your only 17 years away from these pictures embarassing you at your high school graduation.
Seriously, though...Dad has no idea where the time went.
Bacon ages so fast.