Turn it down

Case,

Your mom and I went to a concert last night. It was our first show and first "night out" since you were born (special thanks to Grandma Richards for picking up the child care slack for a few hours).

We've seen our fair share of concerts together, but this one was different.

The first thing I did after we found our seats (in the balcony away from the crowd) was get us drinks. One Diet Coke. One Sprite. Two straws. The bartender looked at me like I had wandered into the venue by mistake.

Once we settled in with our caffeine-free drinks, we had a half-hour to waste. We didn't check out the memorabilia table or try to guess the opening song, rites we had become accustomed to in previous musical outings. Instead, we spent the time comparing pictures of you on our phones, stopping occasionally for your mom to send or answer a text regarding how you were doing.

It was a good show. The Warren Haynes Band was worth the price of admission. But I couldn't keep my mind on the music. I kept thinking about you, thinking about the family.

I did allow myself to drift mentally for a moment near the end of the first set, as my 39-year-old knees ached from walking the path from the balcony and back two times. I though about how it wasn't too long ago that I was swinging a sledgehammer 1,000 times for fun, hitting a heavy bag for 45 minutes with no breaks because I could and running a 5K on the treadmill on my "off days." I turned to your mom and said, jokingly but with the tiniest hint of nostalgia, "I used to be something." She responded without hesitation, smiling: "And now you're a dad."

That's all that needed to be said. My knees stopped hurting, my thoughts drifted back to you, the Sprite tasted better and the music sounded clearer. We stayed for two more songs and I left a concert early for the first time. It was the best concert of my life.

Love,
Dad