And that, I think, is what a proud father really is:
He nodded again. Then he ran off to the slide, and I stood there, hands in pockets, watching him climb. And I felt it—full, undeniable, embarrassing in its intensity: .
Fatherhood is not a finished product. It never will be. There will be v0.14.0 (the first lost tooth), v1.0.0 (the first day of school, terrifying and glorious), and versions I cannot yet imagine—the teenage betas, the adult release candidates, the day he leaves home and I am left with the source code of memory.
Easter, I’ve learned, is a particularly tricky build. Christmas has the big budget—trees, lights, a clear mythology. Easter is weirder. It’s more intimate. A rabbit breaks into your house and leaves boiled, dyed chicken embryos in a woven plastic basket. And in West Yorkshire, where the weather can’t decide between resurrection and another good frost, Easter feels like a metaphor struggling to happen. proud father v0 13 0 easter westy
But because I was finally, fully, present for the thing that mattered.
I opened one eye. There he was: my son, Theo, age four and three-quarters (the three-quarters being vital). His hair was a bird’s nest of sleep and chocolate anticipation. In his hand, a single orange Peep—already slightly squashed, its sugar shell beginning to melt.
“The bunny came,” Theo repeated, more urgently this time. He held up the Peep like a holy relic. And that, I think, is what a proud
That note read: “Theo – You are growing so kind. Keep sharing. Love, EB.”
Just a man who keeps showing up for the updates. Next release: Summer solstice. Expected features: first skinned knee, successful ice cream cone retrieval, and the continued, astonishing business of watching a person bloom.
Not pride in his egg-hunting skills (though he was a natural). Not pride in his cuteness (though, god, the wellies). Pride in him . In the person he is becoming without my permission. In the questions he asks. In the way he shared his last chocolate button with a crying toddler at the swings—without being asked. Fatherhood is not a finished product
Not a finished man.
Not because I had done everything right.