The Greatness of Being a Dad - Fatherhood - Heavy Lifting: Grow Up, Get a Job, Raise a Family, and Other Manly Advice (2015)

Heavy Lifting: Grow Up, Get a Job, Raise a Family, and Other Manly Advice (2015)

PART IV

Fatherhood

17

The Greatness of Being a Dad

When you announce that you’re expecting, you’ll find your friends will give you parenting books. Other than the ones covering the basics—What to Expect When You’re Expecting and its ilk—most of them are awful. The fatherhood ones are worse than the ones aimed at mothers, and the allegedly funny books on fatherhood usually warrant some sort of literary war crimes tribunal. The cover usually shows the guy with spit-up on his shirt, the diaper falling off the kid, hair messed up, unshaven, bags under his eyes so big they wouldn’t fit in an overhead luggage bin, and the author looking out with a stunned, horrified, shocked look on his face. The title is some insufferable variation of, Oh, God, What Have I Gotten Myself Into? Survival Tips for New Dads Drowning in Their Own Incompetence, and the whole project sounds like it’s designed to make you want to leave the kid on a church doorstep.

Screw that guy on the cover. He’s an embarrassment to the rest of us. You are not going to be that guy. Do you hear us? You are not going to be that guy. You can handle this. You can rise to the occasion. You are not going to whine about how hard it is.

We wonder if what’s intended as comedic exaggeration is seen as reality by fatherhood-averse men. They think, “Oh, I don’t want to become that guy!” and think of parenthood as an eighteen-year prison sentence. There are some indicators that society at large is buying into this stereotype of the hapless, bumbling, perpetually overwhelmed dad. The late Stuart Scott observed in his memoir, Every Day I Fight:

I was proud to travel with my kid. I had it down to a science. I wasn’t fumbling around like some amateur. I packed a bag; I had the carrier; I’d take the bottles out on the plane and ask the attendant to put them on ice for the flight. It was like clockwork.

Still, people had a hard time wrapping their heads around the sight of the two of us, and it ticked me off. Whether we were in the security line at the airport, boarding a plane, or checking into a hotel, someone would inevitably say, “Oh, look. Mr. Mom.” People were trying to be nice—complimentary even. But I hated that. I’m not Mr. Mom. I’m Dad. Is Mom ever Mrs. Dad?

Or how about this one? “Oh, that’s so sweet. Dad’s babysitting.” Seriously? Babysitters get paid. I’m no babysitter. I’m Dad. That sense of surprise, that inability to process the fact of a dad who was as conscientious as a mom—it’s a sad commentary on what our culture expects from fathers.*

Stuart Scott, with Larry Platt, Every Day I Fight (New York: Blue Rider Press, 2015).

Once you get the hang of it—and you’re forced to get the hang of it extremely quickly by circumstances—you can carry yourself with warranted pride.

A couple months after I became a father, I went to a New Year’s Eve party. Our little guy was at that delightful stage where he slept in a carrier for unbelievably long stretches. The Mrs. and I could go out to a restaurant or even a semi-noisy bar and have a nice meal and he would sleep through it, or at least most of it.

At this party, I ended up sitting in a circle of male friends-of-friends. It was one of those odd social circumstances where we’re all sitting around, acting like we’re all friends, but I didn’t actually know any of these guys that well. They all knew each other quite well, at least well enough to bust each other’s chops. I was the outside observer—Nick Carraway, peering in at a different social order.

At some point, one of the guys starts busting another guy’s chops about being insufficiently manly. I can’t remember the precise criteria for the accusation of wimpiness or lameness, but I distinctly remember the accuser, a bit of a loudmouth, was not a father and the guy being accused of it was, like me, a new dad.

(Have I mentioned alcohol was involved? Or is that a given?)

The “turn in your man card” routine went on a little longer than it needed to, at least two jokes past the point of being funny, and I either sympathized with the victim of the mockery, or wanted to knock the teaser down a peg or two—oh, who am I kidding, it was both, and I’m not exactly a shrinking violet in any circumstance.

After yet another “Dude, your testicles have been moved to a safety deposit box” joke from the Don Rickles wannabe, I just stood beside the new dad, pointed at him, and asked, “How many people have you created?”

He chuckled and said, “One.”

I turned to the party bully. “And how many human beings have you created?”

He chuckled and saw where I was going with it.

“I think that resolves the ‘who’s the man’ issue.”

Dads deal with things, man.

There’s fear. Maybe a tougher fear to face than skydivers or surfers or any of the other adrenaline-seeking Point Break wannabes face. If you go riding on a motorcycle and wipe out, you’re putting your own life at risk. You have some element of control, an ability to assess the risks for yourselves.

With a child, suddenly there’s this extremely tiny, extremely vulnerable creature in your life that you love more than yourself, and you cannot ensure your baby’s safety with 100 percent certainty. Odds are, everything’s going to be fine with your baby, all the way through adulthood. But you can never be certain. What’s lurking in their DNA? What germs float through the air? What if some drunk driver is on the same road as you at the wrong time? What if there’s a terrorist attack or natural disaster? Kidnappers! (These are exceptionally rare.)

I find myself almost incapable of watching movies or television shows with children in danger now. It’s involuntary—my mind Photoshops the faces of my boys onto the screen whenever the adorable moppet is endangered by kidnappers, terrorists, raptors, or kidnapping terrorist raptors.

This doesn’t mean a parent’s life is consumed by fear; if it is, you’re doing something wrong. But to be a parent means accepting a certain amount of powerlessness over fate, a willingness to charge forward in life, even with the risks.

Dads don’t get to flinch when it gets gross. When Oprah asked Brad Pitt how fatherhood had changed him, he said, “[I’m] tough as nails. I’m impervious to poo, snot, urine, vomit. You can’t get me. You cannot break me down.”

Whatever squeamishness a guy has about bodily fluids, he gets over it really fast once a baby enters his life. And it’s not some magic Neo-Sees-the-Matrix-Code moment of inspiration. It’s just that one moment, “poo, snot, urine, vomit” is coming out with high velocity on the changing table—thankfully, very rarely all at once—and you’re the only hazmat team available. You just have to do it. So you do it. There is no motivator more powerful than necessity.

This is not to say fatherhood is easy. Some days it’s going to be really, really difficult.

There’s a big difference between the hard struggles of parenthood and the hard struggles of any other aspect of life.

To understand why, ask yourself, what do you do all day? What do you make? Reports? Budgets? Car Parts? Buildings?

Maybe you’re phenomenally successful, and you can point to recognized triumphs, praise, and respect of your peers. Maybe you’re less certain about what all your life’s work generated beyond paychecks. At some point in your life, you’re going to wonder if all your efforts have paid off. You’re going to start asking just how much you do that makes a difference, and whether anything you do will really last. You’ll start to think about a legacy.

There is no better, bigger, or more consequential legacy than your child.

It’s trite but true that no one, on his deathbed, ever wished he spent more time at the office. I have yet to ever hear a dad say, “You know, that time we went out and kicked the soccer ball around in the yard was an absolute waste of time. We got nothing done, and Junior still can’t bend it like Beckham.” Yes, kids ask a lot of you—time, energy, sacrifice, patience, care—but ultimately, they’re the ones who deserve it most. I know an overworked, quite successful lawyer who became a full-time mom because she got tired of working to the point of exhaustion for obnoxious, ingrate clients. If you’re going to be exhausted, be exhausted for the ones who matter most.

The working world may give you a lot, but it very rarely gives you love. Kids have so much love to give, it will stun you.

An aspect of parenting that doesn’t get discussed much is the way it can really make you feel empowered.

There is very little in life you get to control. Our daily routines remind us of our powerlessness morning, noon, and night: you awaken to the bad weather, glance at the depressing headlines on the morning news, get stuck in traffic on your morning commute, wonder how serious the rattling noise under the hood is, go to work to grapple with the ever-changing demands of the boss, clients, or customers, spill ketchup on your shirt, fail to get the pretty secretary to smile back at you, realize you have to file your taxes and your in-laws are coming to visit for the weekend.

You get knocked around by the stormy seas of life everywhere else, but when it comes to your children, you’re a king. You and your spouse are the two most powerful and influential figures in your child’s life. You’re more powerful than the rest of the family. You’re more powerful than the teachers. You’re even more powerful than television. Not even Elmo can overrule your vetoes.

You are now The Man. You make the rules, and you get to decide when a rule can be broken. You decide the lessons, and you get to teach them everything you wish you had known when you were little. You get to introduce fresh eyes and ears to everything beautiful and amazing in this world. No matter how the rest of the world sees you, in your child’s eyes, you’re a giant, and it’s not just because they’re smaller than you.

For a while, at least—your child will be convinced you know everything. Your ability to do routine tasks—drive a car, climb a ladder, lock a door, hard-boil an egg—will amaze and fascinate them.

Once they get past the stage of messy substances spontaneously ejecting from all orifices, you’ll be fascinated with them, too. On meet the teachers night, you’ll note that all the other kids’ crayon creations are scribbles, but you will marvel at how your child made the sunlight lines emanate so straightly from the yellow spot in the corner. You will really feel like it’s one of the most amazing pieces of art you’ve ever seen, and you will want to save it forever. I know it sounds silly, but it’s true. Because it’s your kid, and not too long ago, that was just a sleepy, bald, alien-like creature with messy substances spontaneously ejecting from all orifices.

Children are the great clarifier. You may have noticed that some of your peers can become wrapped up in inconsequential aspects of life. They have “drama.” They obsess over petty grudges or perceived slights.

Dads ain’t got time for that.

Yes, kids will blow up the schedule and rhythm of your pre-parenthood life. They’ll wipe away a giant chunk of the time spent on your frivolous enjoyments—your Fantasy Football team, your hours of fiddling around on the Internet, your binge-watching of premium cable television series, your ability to catch a movie at midnight or join the opening-night crowds. But they also wipe away a lot of the inconsequential crap, too. That social engagement you didn’t want to attend, but needed an excuse? “I think the baby might be coming down with something.” You can tune out that boring conversation; if you’re called out on it, you can say, “Oh, I was just thinking about whether we need to renew the baby’s prescriptions.” That after-work happy hour you just don’t want to deal with? Sorry, you’ve got to pick up your child from day care.

We live in a world where you’re expected to multitask. You’re expected to perform the roles of husband, employee or breadwinner, son, brother, friend, neighbor, and, when the time comes, father. You’re also supposed to take care of your health, to be an informed citizen, to recycle, to avoid micro-aggressions, to reduce your carbon emissions and live sustainably, to file your taxes, to be well-read and cultured… . It’s understandable if some days you feel like everybody wants a piece of you, that everybody expects more.

To look upon your infant child is a great clarifier. Clear the decks. Make way. Now you know what comes first. Yes, all of these other people in your life are important. But the vast majority of them will understand when you say, “I have to take care of my child now.”

Part of parenthood is watching your childhood memories reenacted live in front of you, from a different camera angle. You will see certain aspects of yourself coming alive in this new person. Then you’ll see the parts you’re absolutely certain came from your wife. (“My, what a fascinating word you just uttered, Son. Does Mommy say that word when she’s driving?”) Then you’ll see qualities that seem to come from somewhere else.

This is the problem with the modern parenting culture. Everybody feels so obligated to warn you how tough it’s going to be, that nobody remembers to tell you how great it’s going to be.

Children and the Beautiful Selective Memory of a Father’s Frazzled Mind

When you have a small child, a surprising number of strangers will come up to you, inquire about the child’s age, and say, “Oh, what a wonderful age!” So far, year after year, I haven’t encountered the response, “Oh, that’s an awful age. I’m so sorry.” Maybe it will happen with teenagers.

Most of the time, I graciously interact with these well-meaning strangers, who are usually parents of children who are now grown. Occasionally, if the boys have been misbehaving, I’ll respond, “These children are for sale if you want them.”

But as my sons age, I’m beginning to understand the phenomenon.

Our baby days are over; God has been good to us. As I look at pictures of my sons in their baby days, and don’t think of the times the poop escaped the diaper, or the frantic repeating of the five S steps—swaddle, side or stomach, shushing,* swinging, and sucking—in an effort to cease a seemingly endless bout of crying, or the days the diaper genie bag broke, or those months where I was so used to wearing a burp cloth over my shoulder I nearly headed into the office with one. (I guess you never know when a coworker might need to burped.)

Shush the baby, not your wife.

The human mind is fascinating and mysterious. I know all of those hard times happened, but it takes effort to remember them. My memory needs to be jogged, and it hates jogging almost as much as the rest of me. But the good memories are right there, front and center. My older son’s fascination with fall foliage on one of his first walks. Taking him to his first movie, Toy Story 3; his rapturous enjoyment; and how he almost made it to the bathroom on the way out. His bizarre habit of collecting sticks on every walk, and the need to leave them in a pile outside the front door. When my sons first met, my older son observed:

He: He doesn’t talk.

Me: That’s right. Babies don’t talk until later in life.

[He studies his newborn brother some more.]

He: He doesn’t eat sushi.

Me: Yes, that’s true, too.

When I’m describing my younger son to someone who hasn’t met him, the first words are his boundless energy and what can only be described as a lust for life. His monkey-like climbing abilities and utter comfort with heights that unnerve his father. His current fearlessness every time we encounter a spider in the house. His inexplicable athleticism that had him lowering his shoulder and tackling and toppling boys twice his size. I’m raising a little Thor.

The past is strange, because we can see it in our mind’s eye so clearly, but we know it’s gone. It feels like we should be able to go back to a time as easily as we return to a place—psychologically, it’s just around the corner. Ultimately, almost everything we do in our daily life passes; only a few iconic moments get preserved. Our old photo albums mostly sit on shelves, collecting dust. Our shakily shot home movies reside on VHS tapes and other formats that we’re not even sure we could find a machine to play today. More recent images and snippets of video, constantly descending deeper down into our Facebook archives, a drill marking the passage of time. It would be unbearably sad if, after a long life, this was all that we have left.

But we don’t. When we end our ride on this orbiting blue sphere, we parents leave children—half you, half your loved one, and in many cases, capable of amazing things you never could do.

Children aren’t a burden. They’re a gift.

You’re a Parent: Enjoy It

So, what could possibly be so great about caring for every facet of another human being’s life for at least eighteen years, which includes being peed on, being subjected to temper tantrums, being told you know absolutely nothing about anything (by your teenagers), watching your kids make mistakes you can’t correct, and a thousand other indignities and tribulations?

All of it. Every last moment.

I became a dad of two when I got married at age twenty-three. I had my first biological child by the time I was twenty-six. A few years later I’d become a dad once more, this time to twins. If I said that all of these transitions were easy, it would be a lie of “If you like your plan, you can keep your plan” proportions. In all honesty, I had no clue what I was doing. Yes, you learn from every child, but you also learn that every one of your kids is different, so you’re always being kept on your toes.

Thankfully, I had a wise sensei in the form of my wife, who was pretty patient with me. I also started with two wonderful kids who accepted me as “Dad” even if I wasn’t their biological father. When you’re trying to be a good parent, it helps to have good kids.

Being a parent means never sitting in silence on a train or in a car. It means whipping out your smartphone to answer the sixteenth question starting with “Why” in a ten-minute span. It’s introducing someone that’s a part of you to the things you love, and sharing the joy of discovery through another set of eyes.

Having a child doesn’t make you grow up, unfortunately, but being a parent does. At the same time, it also helps to keep you young. I’m still conversant in the language of video games, despite the fact that I put down the XBox controller (for the most part) a few years ago. An unintended benefit of the Cult of Adolescence is that youth culture, in the form of video games, movies, music, websites, apps, or even the occasional book, is much more approachable to parents than it was in the past. An unintended downside to that, of course, is the growing number of middle-aged women squeezed into pants that read “JUICY” across their rear ends waddling through our shopping malls, but I digress.

We are not only awash in a culture of juvenilia, we’re a society of short attention spans, and parenthood is a long game. The goal isn’t to make sure your kid can call each day “the best day ever!” It’s to make sure your kid turns into a grown-up who can make the world a little bit better. When you realize that, parenting becomes a lot less stressful and a lot more rewarding. I imagine childhood becomes a lot less stressful too. It’s not that life magically becomes a Disney Channel sitcom where any family tensions are resolved through a series of wacky (and predictable) events and everything’s back to normal in a half hour. There will be times where your kids will drive you crazy. There will also be times where you’ll drive them crazy, and the two may not always overlap. But there will also be simple walks in the woods and bedtime conversations that become memories lasting a lifetime. Stupid jokes told at the dinner table will become part of family lore until only the punchline is needed to get your family laughing. A thousand shared experiences will shape who your children are, but they’ll also shape you as well. Parenting isn’t about checking off a list of daily achievements and scheduled activities. It’s a state of being and a way of life. And in my experience, it’s a good one.

What Would Ward Cleaver Do?

Of course he’d enjoy being a father; he’s the plumb line by which fathers are measured.