You don't know it, son, but I'm watching you and smiling. We finally have some time to play together in the park, and I can see you're having fun. You want to swing. You want to go down the slide. You're making daddy's legs wobble chasing you. Not a care in the world, which is the way it should be for a 4-year old.

You'll never know how much I wish my life could be that simple.

Today is my last day as a La Crosse Tribune sportswriter. I spent most of my 22 years as a journalist here - more than five working part-time, and just under 13 as a full-timer. My new job, at least for the foreseeable future, is full-time, stay-at-home dad.

You'll never know how many times over the last few months I've stepped back and wondered how the heck I got here.

You'll never know the pain I felt that March 2008 day in the doctor's office. Mommy and I were worried because you hadn't been sleeping much. But she had other concerns. Your words, once abundant, had become few and far between. Loud sounds terrified you. You preferred running in circles over playing with your toys.

I don't remember much after hearing the doctor's preliminary diagnosis - autism - other than breaking down in the parking lot. Not my boy, I sobbed. Please, God, not my boy. Autism Spectrum Disorder affects so many children - one in 110, according to the Centers for Disease Control - and their families. Yet at that moment I felt so very alone.

You'll never know how determined your mother and I were to help make what at times must be a confusing, scary world for you a better place. We enlisted the help of therapists. We sent you off to school two days after you turned 3. Whatever it takes, I told the team of professionals who tested you that summer and confirmed your doctor's suspicions.

You'll never know how much I wanted, needed, to change my life after that March 2009 day in Madison. Your mother and I went to a seminar on autism. One of the speakers shared an alarming statistic: the divorce rate among couples with autistic children is 80 percent.

It was tough enough that your mother and I worked opposite shifts and seldom saw one another. Throw in trying to raise a child with special needs, and it wasn't exactly the way to achieve marital bliss. Something had to give.

You'll never know how much I love and cherish your mother for giving me her blessing to quit my job once we'd paid off our mortgage this past winter. She saw the strain I was under. How the cycle of working late into the evening and taking care of you during the day was taking its toll. You need to leave more than you realize, she said.

You'll never know the range of emotions I'm feeling today. I'm thrilled because now I get to spend a lot more time with you and Mommy, and I get to play a more prominent role in shaping your future. I'm relieved to be leaving on my own terms. I'm a little scared to be starting over at 39 years old. And of course, I'm sad.

You'll never know how much fun it's been to see where I came from - I got my start at the Tribune as a shy, 17-year-old Logan High School senior - and where I ended up.

It was the kind of job that was never boring. I covered Green Bay Packers games at Lambeau Field when Brett Favre played for the good guys. I covered the Milwaukee Brewers' first regular season game at Miller Park. I covered three WIAC title-winning UW-La Crosse football teams. The best times for me were when I was fortunate enough to cover a prep team or individuals who won state titles.

You'll never know how much I've enjoyed being around all the people this job has brought me in contact with over the years. The parents who want to see their kids succeed. The coaches and activities directors who love their jobs. The young adults I got to know as more than just athletes. The co-workers who encouraged me, challenged me and befriended me.

There's always a chance I might do some freelance work for the Tribune somewhere down the road. But unfortunately, kiddo, you'll never really know daddy, the sportswriter.

I'm sure one day you'll find the stack of papers I've saved over the years. Maybe you'll pick up one with my column mug on it and see that I once had a cool job. Maybe by then you'll have the words to ask me why I gave it up.

Just know this. I did it because I love you.