Ernest Hemingway is attributed to saying: “To be a successful father…there’s one absolute rule: when you have a kid, don’t look at it for the first two years.” I’m certain that Hemingway was being glib, but in any account, I’ve completely eviscerated his decree. I’ve been looking upon my son for the nine-and-a-half years that he’s been born. When he was three, my favorite pastime would be to watch him eat.
There was something mesmerizing about watching his little fingers manipulate a fork, scoop food into his mouth and chew—his cheeks and temples undulating in unison as he worked through a plate of silver-dollar pancakes.
There are many gratifying aspects of “son gazing.” Unfortunately, there is a melancholic side. Allow me to clarify: the majority of the times when I look upon my son, I am awash with overwhelming tides of love, pride and guardianship. Then there are times, as a father, where I am enveloped in a forest of anxiety; ominous looking trees blot out the sun (the promise of danger lurking behind each one) and I’m without a clear path to emotional quietude.
It’s been this way since his conception. Hell, the good doctor welcomed me into fatherhood by informing us (the missus and I) that our little cellular nugget may be stuck in one of her fallopian tubes. When a fertilized egg fails to reach the safety of the uterus, it’s called an ectopic pregnancy. This usually results in the termination of the pregnancy. Two days later (I prayed throughout each one) and it turned out that our little guy was in the right place after all.
Apparently, embryos have their own forests to navigate.
I was able to enjoy that respite but only briefly. The pathway to a full-term birth can be treacherous. I was a wreck the first three months because those were the easy miscarry months. The following months were no nature walk either. Each visit to the obstetrician resulted in some new bear trap we had to evade: Down syndrome, spina bifida, cystic fibrosis and Tay-sachs disease. Genetic screening allayed most fears.
During one visit, the friendly obstetric nurse and I made an arrangement where she’d clandestinely deliver me a sealed envelope containing our child’s genetic scorecard. We prolonged in learning the sex, preferring to focus on (his or her) overall health—but my patience had petered out. That day, with the envelope in hand, I slunk to the car ahead of my full-bellied wife and read the contents: normal chromosome count 46, XY...
A son.
This was a good day.
His birth(day) was harrowing. He hadn’t come into the world easily. During the arduous delivery there were sinister-sounding terms caroming around the delivery room:
fetal distress, android pelvis, nuchal cord, not to mention, caesarean section. The younger doctors were nervous. They wanted to wheel my wife into the OR—ASAP. But our battle-tested obstetrician stayed them. What felt like eons passed before my son made his way into this world—no longer a babe in the woods.
He’d made it to another clearing.
Initially, my only want was for the clichéd five-fingers-five-toes. But I was exultant at being the father of a masculine child. I felt as though I had an advantage in raising a son. As a man, I understood how men thought, how men should act. I still can’t figure women out. The divorce papers that I keep atop by bookshelf are a testament to that.
Even with my daddy face-time cut in half, the concept of raising a boy to a man seemed an easy enough assignment. But as my son grew, so did my anxiety. There were things I’d forgotten about boys.
Boys do crazy shit.
Crazy shit like: run the half-mile of Newark subway tracks, from the Washington to Warren street platforms; jump rooftop to rooftop; street race on bicycles, sans brakes; twist and tape together the wicks of four M-80 firecrackers; get walloped by station-wagons while straddling the double yellows in city traffic; spin-out in Ford Mustangs, narrowly avoiding utility poles.
Naturally there was the “shocker” game. My crew had discovered that if one held the metal door handle to the downtown Blimpie (a sandwich shop) and touched the neighboring light pole, a mild electric current would be gifted. The dare was always to see who could grip both the door and pole longest. Benji, a good friend who lives now only in memory, still holds the record: holding so long, in fact, that he temporarily lost sensation in his tongue.
Each of those memories loom like arboreal specters. They brood in the recesses of my psyche. There are so many things that are wrong (or that can go wrong) in this world, how do I shield my son without sheltering him? Will I be able to instruct him in the art of good decision making? Or instill in him a good, strong character and a steadfast spirit?
My father was hard on me. With him, discipline was not a game. His wrath trumped peer pressure in most cases. His yell shook oak trees. His glare froze tree sap. And when I’d really screwed up, he’d peel my backside bark. It was a microcosm for life: screw up and it’s your ass.
Now, I think I understand the root of all his strict authority; he was likely scared to death. He’d once had his own forest to navigate and was determined to equip me to survive my own.
So, I’d cut grass on hot days while my friends ran carefree. But when hard times hit, and they were jobless, I was always able to sustain myself because my work ethic was intact. When the neighborhood boys would steal cars or tempt me into some other life impeding activity, his voice would boom warnings in my head and I’d excuse myself. I’ve since outlived a lot of those guys. So many lessons, I can hardly remember them all.
My father left me a map to work from and to improve upon. As a father now, I’ll do what I can and pray that my direction will be enough for my son. I won’t there for his every fall, sneeze, slip-up, embarrassment or heart-ache. But I, like my father for me, can equip him for survival.
I will protect him until he can protect himself.
I will guide him until he can plot his own route.
