O Behold, My Beloved Spawn

Tom Petty · Feb 29, 2008

Write-brained said:

Tom Petty said:

lono said:

Tom Petty said:

lono said:

You could always say you named him after the butcher who boned Alice on The Brady Bunch.
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i don't think alice qualifies as fine-boned.
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Sam may have thought of her as finely boned, once he got through with her. Close enough.
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sam was a butcher.
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jeremiah was a bullfrog
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but he was a good friend of jones' son.

old_tony · Feb 29, 2008

Congrats, Jones. He'll be a senior in high school next week, so enjoy this week to the fullest.

JayFarrar · Feb 29, 2008

Samuel Fieldman's mustache reminds of Jones facial hair for his recent Esquire-funded adventure to Cuba.

Mazel tov and I'm not even Jewish

joe · Feb 29, 2008

JR said:

(BTW, damn fine piece in Esquire on the Robertson screwdriver, one of our best kept secrets)
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Down here in the States, we just call it a roberts head.

goalmouth · Feb 29, 2008

Much nachas to the Jones gang!

sportsgopher · Feb 29, 2008

Jones said:

Thanks everybody, very much.

I swear, I hadn't heard of Haymarket until tonight.

We just liked the name Sam. And Fielden is my mother's maiden name.

And so by absolute fluke, we named our kid after an anarchist bomber. And, apparently, several thousand other people.

At least he'll have a good myth to spin about his handle.
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Nice job Mr. Jones. Congrats to you and yours.

zeke12 · Feb 29, 2008

Congratulations, Jones.

To steal a line: Teach him how to whistle. His mother won't do that.

Best to the aforementioned Mrs. Jones, as well.

Double Down · Feb 29, 2008

Jonesy,

I read your opening post to my wife, and she got all teary-eyed. Congrats from she and I to you, Lee and Charley.

May Sam inherit:

1. Your wife's patience and wisdom.
2. Your boldness, kindness and loyalty.
3. Your love of inappropriate humor.
4. Someone's digestive track other than yours.

Happy parenting, my friend.

In celebration, here is one of our favorite authors on the miracle of fathers and sons. I've held onto this for awhile, waiting for the right time to share it on the board, because it's really good. Seems, now, like the right time. It's not totally analogous, but the emotions are what matters.

Tim O'Brien on fatherhood.

Dear Timmy,

A little more than a year ago, on June 20, 2003, you dropped into the world, my son, my first and only child -- a surprise, a gift, a miracle, an eater of electrical cords, a fertilizer factory, a joy, a pain in the rear, a thrill in the heart, all the platitudes with a big red cherry on top.

Here's the truth: Boy, oh boy, do I love you. And, boy, do I wish I could spend the next 50 years with my lips to your cheek, my eyes warming in yours.

But as you wobble into your sixteenth month, it occurs to me that you may never really know your dad. The actuarial stuff looks grim. Even now, I'm what they call an an older father, and in 10 years, should I have the good luck to turn 68, I'll almost certainly have trouble keeping up with you. Basketball will be a problem. And 20 years from nowm well, it's sad, isn't it?

Sadder yet, that's the very best scenario. Life is fragile. Hearts go still. So now, just in case, I want to tell you about your father, the man you think I am. And by that I mean not just the graying old coot you may vaguely remember, but the guy who shares your name and your blood and half your DNA.

Above all, I am this: I am in love with you. Pinwheeling, bedazzled, aching love. If you know nothing else, know that you were adored by your dad.

In many ways, a man is what he yearns for, and while it may never happen, I yearn to walk a golf course with at your side. I yearn for a golden afternoon in late August when you will sink a tough 12-footer to beat me by a stroke or two. I want to shake your hand. I want to say, "Nine more holes?"

I yearn to scatter good books around the house -- in the bathrooms, on the kitchen counter, on the floor beside your bed -- and I hope I'm there to watch you pick one up and turn that first precious page. I yearn to see the rapture on your face. (Right now, you eat books.)

I yearn to learn from you. I want to be your teacher, yes, but I also want to be your student. I yearn to be taught, again and again, what I've already started to know: that a grown man can find pleasure in the sound of a happy squeal, a gap toothed grin, in the miraculous utterance of the word "Daddy".

I yearn to watch you perform acts of kindness and generosity. I yearn to witness your first act of moral courage. I yearn to hear you mutter, however awkwardly, "Yeah, yeah, I love you, too," and I yearn to believe you will mean it.

It's hard to imagine as I watch you now, so lighthearted and purely good, so ignorant of gravestones, but, Timmy, you're in for a world of hurt and heartache and sin and doubt and frustration and despair. You will do fine things, I know, but you will also do bad things, because you are wholly human, and I wish I could be on hand to offer forgiveness.

More than that, I long for the day when you might also forgive me. I waited too long Timmy. Until the late afternoon of June 20, 2003, I had defined myself, for better or worse, by the novels and stories I had written. I had sought myself in sentences. I had loved myself only insofar as I loved a chapter or a scene or a scrap of dialogue. This is not to demean my life or my writing. I do hope you will someday read the books and stories; I hope you will find my ghost in those pages, my best self, the man I wish to be for you. Call it pride, call it love, but I even dare to hope that you will commit a line or two to memory, for in the dream-space behind those vowels and consonants is the sound of your father's voice, the kid I once was, the man I am now, the old man I will soon become.

That said, I would trade every syllable of my life's work for an extra 5 or 10 years with you, whatever the going rate might be. A father's chief duty is not to instruct or to discipline. A father's chief duty is to be present. And I yearn to be with you forever, always present, even knowing it cannot and will not happen.

There have been advantages, of course, to becoming a father at my age. I doubt that at 28 or even 38 I would have been so willing, so eager to walk away from my work to warm your bottle. I doubt I would have fully appreciated, as I do now, the way you toddled over to me this morning and laughed and gave me a first unsolicited hug. (You knew I was waiting, didn't you?) I doubt I would have so easily tolerated the din at bedtime, or your stubborn recklessness, or your determination to electrocute yourself, or the mouthfuls of dirt you take from the potted plants in the foyer, or how, just a moment ago, you hit the delete key as I approached the end of this letter.

You're on my lap now, my spectacular Timmy. I'm using your fingers to type these words.

I love you.

Dad
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dreunc1542 · Feb 29, 2008

Thanks so much for posting that DD. That's good stuff.

Jones · Feb 29, 2008

Thanks again everybody. Today's been a very good day. Charley met Sam for the first time. Looked at him a little and then planted a kiss on his little brother's knuckles. My wife burst into tears. I thought of the day when Sam punches Charley in the mouth, the kiss in reverse. But for today, there was only love.

DD, I've had a perpetual case of the wobbles for the past few days -- spilling over entirely when the doctors lifted up Sam to me and it was my job to announce, "It's a boy," and then collapse on Lee like I was recently bereaved -- but that O'Brien piece just about put me down for good.

If nothing else, Fatherhood definitely pushes out your emotional range, on both ends of the spectrum.

BYH · Feb 29, 2008

Goddamn, that was some piece by O'Brien. Not a single syllable wasted. Wonderful. Thanks for posting it, DD.

Sam Mills 51 · Mar 1, 2008

Congratulations, Jones. The fact that you named him Sam was icing on the cake.

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