We didn’t have a name for him, though we knew that he was coming the following day.  He was a scheduled birth.  The doctor told my wife, “You can have him on the twenty-ninth of December or wait until next year.”  For tax purposes, not because we were prepared, we chose the December date; and the night before he was pulled out Cessarian-style, I named him Noah Michael.

Today he is nine enviable years old.  He brings balance to the force.  When he was little, I used to hide behind walls and scare him to see his reaction.  Noah’s flight mechanism is broken; so he appears to be fearless.  When I said, “Boo!” he would come charging straight at me with his little arms in windmills.  Later I had to wear a cup when sneaking up on him.

Of all his qualities, I admire his fearlessness the most.  He is a catcher on his baseball team.  He has written a book.  He draws, and when he is not reading, or writing, you can find him on his skateboard.  I was quite prideful to present him with Independent Trucks for his birthday (like the good book says, “Train up a child in the way he should go…” this is true, proven by the kid who now rides Indys).

So many of the adults I know think that they have it all figured out.  Most adults have learned to navigate the intricacies of life based on fear.  “Whatever Obama does, do the opposite.  Whatever Rush says, well, that’s clearly wrong.  The Dow fell again, store up your wealth.  I’m not co-dependent, I just worry that you’ll leave me.” Adults feed their fears to understand life.  Noah skateboards and writes and draws.  He laughs from a place in his belly that I don’t even know if I have.  The boy smiles way too much.  Big brother and little sister alike know the manner of man he is becoming.

I have a few fears about him.  I know one day he will come home with his foot on the wrong direction, or his skateboard hanging from his eye socket.  I know that one day he will probably live in Australia or Luxembourg; somewhere unfamiliar to him, needing to be discovered and appreciated, far away from his mother and me.  Nearly from his birth, Molly and I have prepared ourselves for what we believe will become a severe wanderlust.

Mostly I fear that somewhere along the line he will be taught how to fear, and how to arrive at all the proper adult conclusions.  I will mourn that day, but for today I will dust off my skate legs and try to land another rail-slide.  We’ll laugh about the way I pick my old body off the concrete basement floor.  I will become like a child for a few moments today.  What will you do?

Happy Birthday, Noah.