Jack’s Gift to Me – A Dad’s Perspective
By Chris Carroll, Jack’s Dad
When Jack was a baby, I often wondered what life would be like as he grew older.
Would I be able to play catch with him in the backyard? Would I be able to teach him to hit a baseball? Would we connect over sports, games, and all the things I imagined doing with my son?
Like a lot of dads, I probably looked too far ahead. I wondered about things that may or may not happen years down the road, instead of simply looking at the baby right in front of me.
And then Jack started teaching me.
“Dad…look at me.”
He has said those words more times than I could ever count. When he wanted me to watch him dance, run, jump, throw a ball, go down a slide, or do something he was incredibly proud of, he would call out with excitement, “Dad…look at me.”
Thirteen years later, he is still teaching me to look.
When Jack was born, I wasn’t sure exactly what to think or how to feel. What I did know was simple: Jack needed a dad, and I needed to show up for him. I didn’t have a playbook. I didn’t have all the answers. I just knew I was his dad.
And slowly, through Jack’s big brown eyes, I began to see life differently.
As a baby, Jack worked so hard for things I had probably taken for granted with other kids. Every milestone felt like a championship. When he took his first steps, we celebrated as if he had just won the World Series. When he learned to swim, it felt like another victory. Jack helped me slow down and appreciate the process, not just the outcome.
His growth became my growth.
Jack has always been running his own race. Not on anyone else’s timeline. Not measured by the same scoreboard the world often uses for kids. His race has been marked by determination, perseverance, joy, and a love for people that is hard to describe unless you have been lucky enough to experience it.
I still remember him as a toddler, sitting at the edge of the bed waiting for his sister to wake up from her nap. The second she opened her eyes, he erupted. He clapped, cheered, and chanted her name over and over as if she had just made the game-winning shot. I’m not sure anyone has ever celebrated another person simply waking up quite like Jack.
That is one of Jack’s gifts. He sees people. He celebrates people. He makes ordinary moments feel like something worth cheering for.
And sometimes he celebrates people whether the moment calls for it or not.
I have watched him yell from the stands while his brother is standing in the batter’s box, “That’s my brother! I love you so much!” It may not be the quietest or most strategic baseball advice, but it might be the most Jack thing ever. He is not worried about the count, the score, or the timing. He sees his brother, loves his brother, and wants everyone else to know it, too.
Jack has brought plenty of humor into our lives, including the time he borrowed a line from Home Alone and called his teacher a “cheapskate.” He has also figured out how to charm his way through school hallways, avoid math, writing, and reading whenever possible, and somehow convince the lunch lady to make him pizza when no one else was getting pizza.
Only Jack.
There have also been harder seasons. Health concerns. Specialty appointments. Behavior challenges. Moments when we have had to learn, adjust, advocate, and grow as a family. I have heard people describe Jack as “complex,” and maybe that is fair.
But I would not change a single thing about him.
Not one thing.
Jack is exactly who he was created to be. Fearfully and wonderfully made. He has made me a better dad by teaching me to slow down, to really see people, to give more grace, to have more patience, and to notice what I might have missed if I had been too focused on what the world calls success.
As dads, I don’t think we are asked enough about what it means to raise a child with Down syndrome. Maybe it is a “guy thing.” Maybe people assume we will just figure it out.
But if I had any advice, it would still come from Jack.
Look at your child.
Don’t look too far into the future. Don’t spend too much time staring at what might be different, delayed, or uncertain. Look at the child right in front of you. Watch them run their own race. Cheer for the little things. Notice the courage. Celebrate the effort. Be their biggest fan in the stands.
Because there is so much to see.
Jack, you are the gift no one knew they needed, including me. You have opened my eyes to what matters most. You have helped me watch the game differently. You have made me better.
And I am exactly where I am supposed to be: right here, your dad, looking at you.
I love you,
Dad
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