Tom Reynolds

Harry,

I am addressing you by your proper first name, and not any one of the multitude of names I have called you in the past year. I am doing this at your mother’s behest, but frankly I would just as soon give  into family instinct and call you by one of the following: Havildar , Lars, Chipper, Chippy, Hav-star, Lars Von Poopy pants. Etc.

So it’s been a very different kind of year. That is, of course, a given. I could go through your birth (Daddy got drunk and let mummy down) and I could go through you early weeks. (I took a lot of time off work, then quit my job and stayed up every night your mother was up- not because I wanted to be the hero… but rather just because I wanted to). I would rather talk about what your arrival means to me.

Simply put, son of mine, you have changed everything. I hasten to add it’s not for the bad either. I still windsurf (and at 37 I can still forward loop like the current world champ), race motocross (I broke ribs last year and yet I am going to go at it again this year) and get drunk like a monkey. I flirt, party, write, dance and live like I am still 25.

But I am not. I’m over 100 kilos now and it’s a struggle to stay there. I can’t see this computer screen as well as I could 10 years ago. I can’t run like I used to (my knee reconstruction 9 years ago really messed that up). This, apparently,  is what the other side of the hill  like. But I’ll stay off the brakes and hope that I have enough of a lead to hold off the demons that follow.

So, Harry, I shall turn to you. It’s an old wives tale what the first born looks like the male to reassure we fragile types that you are indeed *ours*.  And one look at you- even when your head looked like a dropped pie- assured me that you were indeed mine. Feet like a clown, hands like steaks, voice loud like a foghorn. Yes, that’s what a Reynolds is like. Your Great Uncle Colin had died but a few days prior to you being born, but somehow he sneaked even more genetic material into you.

You would have very much liked your Grandfather and Great Uncle. Though both were emotionally damaged by the untimely and early death of their parents, they none the less prevailed and grew into big boofy men; admirable men, strong physically and unique characters each of them.

But it will may not be the expectation of your physical prowess that weighs you down my son, but rather the overall weight of expectation. Worry not; we are not world changers. We are however raconteurs, public speakers, bullshit artists and- when the mood takes us- terrible drunks. I would blame that on the Irish side, except much of our behaviour seems to some from our English side. Maybe, like your godfather Peter, we are from the north, where the best drunks and men come from. But you need to consider that we may in fact be from Ireland, where the empty talkers and bullshitters come from.

So, family expectation aside, let me say how you and I are today. Despite the large amount of time you and I spend together, I am not your go-to person for affection. When you kiss (and mate, we need to talk about that, you kiss like a horse), you kiss your mum 5:1 in favour of her. But when you want to wrestle or make a mess, you come to me. I like that. I am your happy co-conspiritor.

It is the wrestling and playtime I relish. We have crawling races down the hallway and bash ourselves around the room. I throw you in the air so high people gasp, I carry you upside down, by your legs and whatever suits. This week we’ve been practising walking. You can do it, but you aren’t really all that interested in walking just yet. Fair enough. There’s no rush.

In the mornings, we bring you into our bed. Not for a sleep as you are invariably done with that- you are awake and ready for action. You hug your mum and then seek me out for fun. How much this means to me- and how much I love this- I cannot truly express. Head butts (accidental), headlocks, rolls, holds and so on form part of our daily ritual. I treasure these moments- they sustain me through any dark times.

Coming home to you has always been a pleasure. You are always quick with a smile and happy to play with almost anyone at anytime. What a versatile young man you are- and still yet to tick over one year on this planet.

So what is it I want to say to you on this, your first birthday? I could saymore things like I’ve said above. But simply I would like to day this:

Thanks little cobber.

These are the same words my grandfather sent to me in a letter in 1972. And  there, my son, is a man you would do well to study, admire and understand.

Consider this:

Thomas Hugh Sarre
Service number:1438
Rank: Trooper
Unit:10th LH
Service: Army
Conflict: First World War, 1914-1918
Award: Military Medal

This man, your great-grandfather (after whom I am named) went to his grave without telling what that medal was for.

“Trooper SARRE on the night 29/30 Sept. (1918) was one of Lieut. GWYNNE’S troop which stormed the rocky ridge south of SASA. He was in charge of a troop hoitchkiss gun with which weapon he did considerable damage amonmgst the enemy. During the pursuit at daylight on the 30th he galloped his horse forward to close quarters, brought into action and shot the team of a leading field gun hereby causing its abandonment by the enemy. SARRE showed conspicous gallantry and dash throughout the whole of these operations”

Terrbile things sometimes are thrust upon good men, and I hope you are never placed in the same position. I don’t plan to shield you from this reality-perhaps  just long enough until you are ready to understand.

The horrors of war aside, my hope for the next year is that you progress in the normal fashion, but with the added proviso that I am able to provide you with the dad that you so richly deserve.

Until next year- enjoy every moment… and a little less biting plz.

All my love,
Dad.

PS As I am still feeling rather sentimental. Ben Folds- Still Fighting It

he says go the poms, i say screw them

Karcher New Zealand- thomasr buys IN…, originally uploaded by thomasrdotorg.

It’s buying IN.

Bill Hicks once said “if you do a commercial, you’re off the artistic roll call FOREVER. Every word you say becomes suspect. Every word you say is like a turd falling from your mouth into my drink.”

But he didn’t live long enough to have a wife and family. Sorry Bill, but I have bills.