my friend micheal martinez in gillette reminded me of this old
story..one thats a good reminder for everyone 

Father Forgets", the Famous W. Livingston Larned poem featured in the
classic Dale Carnegie book: How to Win Friends and Influence People, is
a stark reminder of the innocence of youth and the unawareness of
adulthood. More than that, "Father Forgets" is a beautiful tribute to
the importance of relationships.

It's a poignant reminder of the importance of words, and actions, and
the timeless quality of a look, a touch, a bond and a friendship,
especially between fathers and sons.

Mr. Larned and 1927 has taught me a lesson. The Reader's digest version
of this classic poem has given me a lot to think about.

This poem, "Father Forgets" should be required reading for any parent.
Required reading for any man. Required reading for anyone who one day
hopes to have a child.

Below are the words of the beautiful poem "Father Forgets":

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled
under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead.
I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat
reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over
me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I
scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face
merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your
shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the
floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down
your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick
on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train,
you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned,
and said in reply,

"Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the
road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes
in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching
you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive‐and if you had to
buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came
in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up
over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door.
"What is it you want?" I snapped. You said nothing, but ran across in
one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed
me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set
blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither.

And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs. Well, son, it was
shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible
sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me?

The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding‐this was my reward to you
for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I
expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my
own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character.
The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide
hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me
good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your
bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if
I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a
real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh
when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will
keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy‐a little
boy!"

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son,
crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby.
Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I
have asked too much, too much.

-W. Livingston Larned