father and son

On my sons birthday I celebrate the Poet, Papa and Professor while still reserving the right to be a mom.  You know what they say about mothers–we’re supposed to be embarrassing. 

He has a website:


When it comes to scholarship, he’s a professor who earned his doctorate before the age of 30.  I was fortunate to get a B.S.  

He speaks 3 languages fluently, Spanish, Portuguese and English. I can ask, “where is the bathroom” in all 3 languages but there’s no guarantee you can understand a word I’m saying.

When it comes to poetry, he peruses every word. My writing is light, his is heavy.  The poem I wrote for today’s NaPoWriMo is in honor of the fact that I can never hope to understand the depth of his poetry.

When it comes to fatherhood, no man could love his daughter more.  That, to me, is an accomplishment greater than any other.

He went to Spain when he was 17 and learned the language so well that native speakers couldn’t tell the difference. Also in honor of my son’s birthday, I’ll share a story about this with you:

My son spent his senior year in Spain, even taking calculus in Spanish. When he returned to the USA, he was told he had to take a couple of classes he’d missed (Passing calculus in a second language wasn’t enough?).  It meant he had to repeat his senior year all over again in the USA to receive his high school diploma.

He was in a line with friends, speaking Spanish to them in his velvet smooth European accent. When he made it to the front of the line, the woman taking his information jotted down that he was Hispanic.

“I’m not Hispanic,” He said.

“You speak Spanish.”

“I was born in Minnesota,” He said.

“Where was your mother born?”

“Miami,” He replied.

“Then you’re Spanish.”

I’m told it wasn’t easy convincing her that he was the product of a mother with Irish and French Canadian roots, and a Jewish father from Brooklyn.  

Were his father alive today,

he would say,

“I’m proud of my son, too.”

All I have to give

are a poem

and these words…