Cooked Goose

Remember that First Thing? I wrote a couple weeks back that if you want to love your kids, love their mother. If you live under the same roof, try this little experiment. Walk up to your wife, and hug her. Hold her awhile, smiling the whole time. Do it, and make sure your kids see you do it. Then make careful observations: See what your kids do, what they say.

Our intro to that barest of all essentials – our intro to relationship is Mom and Dad. Even before Mom and me or Dad and me, it was Mom and Dad. They were already there. Into their union, you were born. The most powerful force I’ve seen in this world is love. Less powerful, but far more pervasive is its adversary, fear. Where ever there is relationship, there is both love and fear. Ever present, but unable to co-exist. They rage against each other, no where with greater ferocity than in the relationship between man and wife. Makes sense: It’s the most primal of relationships – the very cradle of civilization.

Into this, this cradle a child is born. Your relationship is their first, and so it leaves an indelible mark. The boy, the girl is introduced to either a world where love conquers all or where fear is the irresistible force.

If your kids are anything like mine, they’ll smile. The sight of you locked in an embrace with their mom will make them instantly happy. For years, in our home, our kids would come running from all corners of our place yelling, “Group Hug!”

She’s wearing a hat. It’s one of those floppy, brimmed hats fishermen wear to keep the sun off their necks. She is holding her belly as expectant mothers often do during the third trimester. By the ninth month, the skin is drawn so impossibly taut; the constant touch is there to almost reassure herself. And in this photo, she is smiling big. I remember that moment so vividly. So clear that you’re told, “No, you’re confusing memory with seeing the photo over the years.” No, I remember it. I can hear the sounds. The beach. We talked near the showers where I rinsed off the sand and salt. The overcast was clearing; the warm late summer sun breaking through.

But maybe this I do see in the picture, or maybe it is in my memory and so I project it when I look at that photo. Past the big smile and the playful hat, way back in her eyes there’s some anxiety. It was the due date. She woke me that morning animated. There was some wetness. Did her water break? But it was more a few drops than a puddle. And it stopped. After some debate, we decided to go for a long walk at the beach. You know, get her going. Later that evening, the baby showing no sign of budging, she decided to call just to be sure. We were told to come in. The test came back as trace amniotic fluid. The amniotic sac can spring a pin hole sized leak. Who knew? In our case, the trickle that stopped was explained by the baby’s positioning pressing against and thus plugging the hole.

Because the sterile environment had been compromised all day, they put her and the baby on antibiotics. Our son was born meconium and with an elevated temperature. I do not want to be an alarmist. And having been one, I know that expectant, 1st time parents comprise as jumpy a group as there is. So calmly, I suggest: Near your due date, when in doubt, check it out.

It’s happening. He’s taller than his Mom now. And creeping on me. The voice is changing – deep and squeaky. He’s getting thicker and hairier. The kid eats like a horse. Anything and everything; anytime, anywhere. The other day, he went to the movies and killed a large box of popcorn. Got sick, passed out, woke up, and ate some more. As their appetite grows, I’d heard they stop talking. Wasn’t convinced. You know, it’s so tempting to believe your child is going to be the exception. Nope. “I don’t know.” “Dude, don’t you know anything?” “I don’t know.” But the speech loss is only around adults. It’s not so much a loss in the ability to speak; it’s an allergic reaction to you, the adult. Get him around some friends, and they’ll talk for hours and hours about boogers. I’d also heard you see less and less of ’em. Sure enough, the first chance he gets; he’s out. The whole thing scares the crap out of me.

It’s happening. She can wear her mother’s shoes. The last six months, she’s hit a growth spurt. Fingers, no more stubby, chubby childlike. They’re stretched, long like a woman’s. I have to be careful about going into her room. At school there’s drama with the girlfriends. This one thinks this about that one. And that one is best friends with the other, but doesn’t like this one, which means she can’t be with this one without getting that one pissy.  Geez. Pre-teen Soap. Yeah, and I’d heard this for years. “Man, you better get yourself a shotgun.” She is pretty. Sure enough, the prepubescent little dogs are sniffing around. They’re not much of a threat yet – vastly under gunned in both physical and emotional development. They look like excited Beagles around well groomed Collies. Comical now, but I know they’re coming. In a couple years, big, black Rotts. The whole thing scares the crap out of me.

No matter how scared, I can’t become a buddy dad. You know, the one who tries by being a buddy – the cool dad which is to say, permissive dad. “They’re gonna be teens; they’re gonna mess around some. Relax.” Hell no. If ever they needed a father, it is now. I can’t become that grumpy dad either. The one who scowls and shakes his head for five years. That’s not working. Can’t let the fear leverage me. I need to stand; stand here and figure this out. I suspect with knees knocking and bowels emptied all the way through.

You know that horrific hypothetical scenario in which a person is caught in a tragic situation with only enough time and resources to save one of two drowning loved ones? You know that thing we’ve all thought about in our moment of morbid soul sifting? Well, put a child in that scenario on the dock, holding the floatation instrument, that child will not give it a moment’s thought before tossing that styrofoam donut toward … you guessed it, Mom. That’s right., Dad goes down. As well he should. A child loves his/her Mom. It’s just the way it is, man. It’s not personal. Not that they don’t love you; it’s just that they don’t love anything, anyone more than Mom.

A generalization. Yes. But also generally true. It stands to reason then that the first thing in fatherhood is loving the Mom. I think things are way more connected than we’d like to believe. As much as we’d like to fragment our lives and deal with them in pieces as they best suit us, life just doesn’t seem to work like that. Tell a child, “I really can’t stand your mom, but remember, I love you.” That child, if he/she could, would say, “That’s dumb dad.” They may not know exactly how, and they may not yet possess the ability to articulate the reasons why, but they know something’s wrong with that statement.

Some of us are thinking, “That’s a rough one.” The first thing is the thing that can’t be done. I get that. I don’t know your situation – in no position to pass judgement. And yet, I didn’t start writing to say “It’s all good.” You don’t need to look far to know, it’s not all good. And c’mon, you don’t want me to just tell you what you want to hear. Unless you want to hear the truth. Well, then I guess I am telling you what you want to hear. “Boy, didn’t we just tell you not to do that … well, alright then.”

Want to love your kids well? The first thing: Love their Mom. Do right by her.