They’re necessary.

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I spent this evening watching three generations of proud papas. Each welcomed my son, Damien, as the newest Meese man. In turn they all laughed and smiled at Damien as he cooed and kicked. Each reveled in their role as a dad, granddad, and a great-granddad.

The evening’s patriarchal presence commanded respect with his crown of wisdom. He always has, according to the stories of his military days. Even with his prestige, I’ve always found him to be warm and kind. When I tell him so, he tells me not to spread any rumors. He has a reputation to protect.

Tonight his wrinkles softened and his eyes sparkled. I had a wonderful time watching him hold his great-grandson.

The newly crested granddad sipped his wine and engaged. He leaned far from his arm chair to see the baby, and let conversation stop so that baby could be heard.

Having spoken to him yesterday, I saw his excitement at the news that his father was in town. Surprised though he was, his voice danced with delight. He aimed to take a photo– four generations– a photo of legend, inked with life, a true moment to remember. Tonight was the evening of the photo.

My husband, the new dad on the block, was the evening’s host. Before our guests arrived, he bounced the baby, took care of an under-the-weather wife and her needs, and played video games to channel his excitement. He’s pretty much the cutest thing ever.

When taking family pictures, my husband had the biggest smile of them all. He cheeses in his happiest moments. Tonight while standing by his father, grandfather, and infant son, he beamed.


How lucky my son is to be among such men.

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