It was the morning of September 3, 2022. I was asleep. Perhaps I was having one of those dreams that I usually don’t remember when I was suddenly awakened by my new somewhat sporadic alarm. Polo was moving around in his June bed – what we call his bassinet in honor of a beloved friend. The sounds were that of one who had enough and wanted to feel the embrace of one of the two people he is most familiar with.
I’m alert now. The sound brought back the excitement that had been building up for some time now. It was Polo’s dedication day. It wasn’t about the mohawk that my barber of 5 or so years had expertly crafted or my new plum color bow tie. It was Polo’s day. It was one day before he officially hit four months. It is the first time that he will be around such a large group of people. And although I’ve witnessed countless baby dedications before, it is an extraordinary experience to anticipate that event for the first time.
We were dressed and were soon on the road. Parking was a little difficult since there was a funeral in the area but we eventually found a spot. We were on time. That means we entered the church at a moment that allowed us to settle down with ease. I experienced what I considered the first proud moment that day. I walked into the sanctuary holding my little boy. He was quiet. I thought that this was a good start to the day. Screaming while walking into the space wherein a major life event was going to take place is not the way to go.
He remained quiet until he wasn’t. The room began to fill with both familiar and new faces. At this point, even the familiar faces weren’t so familiar due to the distance between encounters. COVID, responsibilities, and travel time make it difficult for family to be around as much as they would like. But they were here. Those that were closer had a chance to hold him. He was heavier than what they remembered. Little Polo had been enjoying his feeding times and it was showing in all types of ways.
Then we were called up to the front. I stood up straight and positioned him in my arm before commencing the slow somewhat processional march to the front of the sanctuary. The moment had come. Smiles were all around as family and friends gathered in love and support. The presiding pastor uttered his remarks. I then gave Polo over to very familiar hands in two senses. Humanly, he was given into the hands of the church’s first elder who is family. Spiritually, the first elder and the presiding pastor functioned as representatives of God. They stood in place of the greater divine reality. He was given into God’s hands.
Since his birth, I’ve been whispering to him almost on a daily basis that he is God’s child. On that day, I literally gave him over. I simultaneously publicly acknowledge that he belongs to God and, as a result of that understanding, took a vow to raise him accordingly. We then kneel for the prayer. I prayed in my heart that this boy might live a life that reflects this starting point and the efforts that his parents will make so that he can be a remarkable man of faith, learning, and service to mankind.
When the prayer ended, I stood. His name was announced and I watched the first elder lift him high in the air for all to see. It was reminiscent of Simba being lifted up at the promontory point of Pride Rock. This was the second proud moment of the day. While the prayer was the crowning moment of the dedication, the lift was a resplendent pearl. As all eyes witnessed Polo moving upward, the room was quickly filled with applauses, laughter, and oohs and aahs. Smiles were beaming from ear to ear.
Not surprisingly, Polo handled the dedication well. I didn’t expect him to cry. But upon returning to our seats, he was back to normal and becoming frustrated with the many faces that were in the room. He also lacked the opportunity to fall into a deep sleep. It set the stage for attendees to witness just how good his lungs were. His arms and legs jolted back and forth until he found solace in his father’s arms.
Polo ended up being a daddy’s boy that day. While he can endure a great deal of commotion, his energy was now spent. I took him outside and sat in a quiet corner with him. He smiled and showed a little of his jovial side before demanding food. I watched him as he drank and thought of all the points along the way leading up to this day. He can now roll from his stomach to his back, he smiles and laughs, he makes sounds demonstrating that he is on his way to speaking, and he attempts to hold himself up in a seated position.
Going into fatherhood, I both knew and didn’t know what to expect at the same time. I mean, there will be a crying baby that needs feeding, diaper change, or sleep. Those are generally the big three focuses. Diapers didn’t scare me, feeding was self-explanatory for the most part, and sleep was a no-brainer.
It all seemed so simple until it wasn’t. Feeding time came and the nourishment was immediately provided so that Polo wouldn’t feel neglected and have to resort to vocalizing his discontent with ear-screeching cries. He did anyway. I was afraid that the neighbors would call the police. I still am. Being prepared did not always equate smooth sailing. The few times that a slip-up occurred and readiness wasn’t available at the right time, loud vocalizations ensued even when nourishment arrived. It was as if he was saying he was upset because of the lateness.
How does a father go about dealing with that? Well, I proceeded to talk to him. With soft tones and gentle rocks, I attempted to explain that the food was here and that everything was ok. Noticing the failure, I would go on to sing what I was attempting to convey. I had early on learned that he enjoys my singing. This failed as well. Massaging hair, rubbing the belly, and whatever else more seasoned parents have shared did not work. Polo carried on as Polo wanted till he was content with his expression of himself.
I learned that the only way to know he was ready to stop was to periodically attempt to feed him. If he wasn’t ready he would either seal his mouth while still carrying on with the crying sound or he would allow the bottle to be placed in his mouth while crying. In either case, no drinking was being done. I can’t say there is a correct amount of tries for one to know he is ready to drink. He determines whenever that is. I just followed orders.
But this time, he was drinking. I looked at his outfit. He had on a light blue blazer with matching bow tie and short. The blazer had a patch with an embroidered crest that reminded me of some exclusive fraternity. He had on a white short sleeve shirt, white shoes, and white socks with crosses on them. He occasionally tug at his head full of curls angling every which way while the drinking continued. I smiled at the thought of how much my life now revolve around an emperor who probably doesn’t even realize he has new clothes.
