I’m that dad.
I’m that dad who posts countless pictures of my son. When he rides a bike, when he climbs a big rock, when his hair looks especially out-of-control. I am unapologetically proud of my son, my Nolan, and I want the world (or at least the world that my privacy settings allow) to see him.
I took 14 pictures and 2 videos of Nolan at tonight’s soccer practice. 14 pictures in 45 minutes.
And we have 30 pictures of Simon. That’s all we have, and that’s all we’ll ever have.
I’ve spent the last week scrolling through these pictures. His hand. His ear. His perfect little nose. I look at them with the same pride I have when I look at Nolan. I look at them and I see how perfect he is.
And I look at them and the anger, the heartbreak, the confusion, swells. The anger that his pictures from our hospital room are his only pictures. The anger that he’ll never grow up.
The anger that no one has ever, or likely will ever, ask to see him. He was battered and broken, bruised and bleeding. And he was perfect.
I will be forever grateful that we have 30 pictures of our little boy, and I’ll be forever broken that we have 30 pictures of our little boy.