Certainly there are plenty of dads who push their kids to excel, but they don’t seem to obsess over their kids’ activities the same way a mother does.
To be fair, I plead guilty to being more competitive than Al and also more socially aware. Al couldn’t care less about the dance class or ice-skating lessons, although I know he wants whatever is best for our children. He’s a big fan of downtime. But he’s usually supportive as long as I don’t drag him into each and every activity.
Like many women, I am the social planner in our house. I am the reason we go to the opening night of the ballet, or the theater, and other important cultural events. Anyone sitting next to us has probably seen Al dozing off during a production of the Radio City Christmas Spectacular or a Broadway show. In fact, the only reason he goes with me to the opera at all is because he knows he will get in a good nap! But he gets a pass since he gets up at three thirty a.m.—and he did go with me.
We both admit, though, that our lives would likely fall apart without a reliable babysitter. When Al’s mother died, we no longer had a relative we could turn to for help, so our caregiver Bibi has become a godsend. She picks up Nicky from school unless Al can get away to do it himself. She also spends the night when one—or both—of us travels on assignment for work, which is more often than we’d like to admit. We are indebted to Bibi, a mom herself of grown children, who has a warm smile and a kind touch. For six years she has been my stand-in when I have to catch a flight at six a.m. or if Al and I want to grab a rare night out. Sometimes she is my saving grace.
I didn’t always have such support. After giving birth to Leila, I wasn’t prepared for how vulnerable I would feel. There’s an old expression that “to have a child is to forever know what it is to have your heart beating outside your chest.” No truer words have been spoken about parenthood. That little bundle of joy changes everything. So for me, like so many women, handing my child off to a babysitter was beyond difficult. I didn’t grow up with babysitters and neither did Al. My aunts and cousins pitched in whenever Mom needed to go somewhere. But today life is so different, especially when you don’t have close family living nearby. I accepted that I would need help after having children, especially if I wanted to work, but I still wanted to be the glue holding the household together. I’d had a C-section and needed quite a bit of help around the house, so I turned to a sitter to guide me, someone who could hopefully help me figure out how to keep all of the moving parts together without falling to pieces. My first babysitter was loving and smart. She had a son of her own and was happy to share her wisdom. And I was all too happy to accept it! I was a nervous new mom, not yet comfortable in the role, who had great appreciation for the love and care this woman showed Leila. After all, she was looking after my life’s treasure. I was so grateful for her help, and of course I depended on her. So even if I didn’t like something here and there, I was reluctant to say anything for fear of upsetting her.
Red flag!
I should have recognized that immediately as a problem in the relationship, but I didn’t. Al was oblivious to it, so it made it challenging to talk to him about how I was feeling.
Over time, as I eased back into the demands of my job at ABC, things slowly began to change. I noticed how my otherwise charming and warm babysitter could be very controlling. She’d brag to others about what a great dad Al is and how involved he is, while pointedly remaining silent about me. Even when I was around, she rushed to take charge of the kids. When Leila accidentally locked herself in the bathroom, our sitter raced to save the day before I could sort it out.
One day, my colleague and friend Cynthia McFadden was visiting, and she pointed out something that I had been glossing over.
“You know your sitter doesn’t always have your best interest at heart,” she quietly said. Cynthia’s son, Spencer, and Leila often played together, and she had noticed other instances of subtle sabotage. She had put into words a vague feeling I’d been having. Her next words shocked me, though. “She sees herself as Leila’s second mom and acts like you’re just Al’s wife who comes and goes.”
At first I thought it was overdramatic and ridiculous, but I soon recalled many instances when the sitter had inserted herself in a family moment. And even stranger, this woman kind of resembled me. We were similar in size and stature. I had offered her some clothes that I was giving away, and when she wore them, from a distance she was a dead ringer. It was kind of eerie. It reminded me of the movie All About Eve.
Women can smell another woman who is being competitive. Guys don’t always see it, but women do. Al thought everything was peachy keen, but it was far from it. I could feel the tension growing, and it was getting frustrating for me. I had a gentle talk with the sitter, and for a while things seemed better. I consoled myself with the fact that she was reliable and honest and Leila adored her. And let’s face it, I traveled and needed the help.
A couple of years passed, and although the situation was far from good, I was afraid to let our sitter go. She had the household running like a top. And Leila cherished her. Once when Leila fell down, she ran into the arms of the babysitter first. That stung! But leaving aside what I now regarded as subtle condescension toward me, I trusted this woman with my children. Our second baby had arrived, and I craved a familiar routine. I overlooked it when she criticized the breakfast I made Leila or stepped into a family photo uninvited. Some of my friends told me that it was time to start fresh, to find someone who would better understand boundaries. When I broached the subject of firing that longtime babysitter, Al did his best to understand how I felt, but he thought we could make it work; he worried that making a change would be upsetting to the children. That was true, but his reluctance bothered me deeply, because it felt like he wasn’t supporting me. I am his wife and I was being disrespected. I didn’t understand how he could defend the behavior of a dismissive babysitter over my feelings. I know Al was thinking about the kids’ well-being, but what about mine?
When I shared the situation with my girlfriends Agenia and Tonya, both savvy moms who also had babysitters, they had one response. “It’s time to start over.”
In my gut I knew they were right, but I was afraid. How would I manage without someone who’d been there from the start and knew the kids and the house like the backs of her hands? Here I was, incredibly blessed to be able to afford daily child care, which many working moms cannot. So maybe I should just “suck it up”! And besides, everything might fall apart without her, making me even more stressed and leaving me unable to travel for my next assignment.
What was wrong with me? I am a strong, accomplished woman who can stand up to the most hardened criminals in interviews or powerful network bosses for what I believe in, and yet I couldn’t fire a babysitter?
I realized that at the end of the day I share a common trait with many women.
My children are my weakness.
I will suffer slings and arrows when it comes to them. In this case, I was blinded by the fear of shaking up their world.
Then one morning the blinders came off. I unexpectedly came home to drop off a package and overheard my babysitter in the kitchen, bad-mouthing me to the plumber. She was mimicking my voice and disparaging me. My jaw dropped! When I rounded the corner, her eyes widened in surprise and my hands began to shake. This betrayal was the final straw.
“You need to get your things and leave,” I said sternly.
I’d had enough. I had been enduring moment after moment of insubordination from this woman, and I’d hit my threshold of tolerance. There were no second thoughts this time. I couldn’t have someone in my home blatantly showing me disrespect in front of someone else. Period. I had no idea how I would manage the next few days—or even the next few hours—but I knew I was making the right move. There had to be someone else out there who would be happy to work with a warm and caring young family.
The next few weeks were tough. Leila cried and
cried for her babysitter, and I felt terrible that we couldn’t work things out. But I knew that it was impossible. We all needed a clean slate. And I needed to know that I was back in control of my own home. It wasn’t easy, but I learned two powerful lessons from this experience.
First, my children’s most valuable assets will always be Al and me.
Second, life is all about change. It’s up to us to make that change positive and powerful and to believe that God will make a way.
Al was fully supportive of the decision. We juggled our schedules, and within a week we had found Mila, a lovely, soft-spoken new babysitter who had a gentle way about her. I laid out the details of her duties with newfound authority, creating a relationship of respect and friendship from the very start. And soon the positive impact of the change was clear. My children quickly learned that no matter what, their mommy and daddy will always be a constant in their lives. Losing a lifelong caregiver was harder on Leila than Nicky, since he was a baby, but she got through it and she understood that in life there will be little bumps and unexpected changes. This would be the first of many blips in her life. It wasn’t an easy time for any of us, but we grew stronger as a family because of it. I learned how to be more honest about my feelings, and Al learned how to listen more. Now I have no doubt that he will step up and support me whenever I need him.
AL
Lessons My Father Taught Me
Dads were different in the 1950s and 1960s than they are today. There were more defined gender roles, and when people pictured a dad they probably pictured a man showing his son how things worked. That was us. I could happily sit and watch my dad work on his car, changing spark plugs and checking the oil, replacing the distributor cap or doing any number of other guy things that dads did, and find it fun. Fathers and sons probably still do this, except now you need a computer, a hydraulic lift and a physics degree to work on a car!
One of my favorite movies of all time is A Christmas Story, with the great Darren McGavin playing the dad. It’s set in post–World War II Indianapolis, but it was shot in Cleveland when I was living there! At one point in the movie, the “old man” and his son Ralphie, the boy who narrates the story, go out to get a Christmas tree. On their way home, they get a flat tire.
“He had always pictured himself in the pits of the Indianapolis Speedway,” Ralphie says. (The dad doesn’t have a name; he appears in the credits simply as “the old man.”)
“Four minutes! Time me!” the old man says as he hops out of the car.
Then he shows Ralphie how to change a flat. When they lose one of the lug nuts, Ralphie accidentally uses the F word. No, not “fudge.” “I said the mother of all curse words,” Ralphie admits. These are the moments between fathers and sons that create the kind of bond that can never be broken. The physical act of changing the tire together brought Ralphie and the old man closer together (of course, dads didn’t have AAA back then).
Not long ago, Leila, Nicky and I were driving in the Berkshires in Massachusetts when I felt our compact car shimmying. I pulled over to see what was going on. When I got out of the car, I discovered I had a flat tire.
“Oh man,” I thought.
I did what every red-blooded American dad does in the new millennium. I hit the red aid button on the roof of my car and summoned roadside assistance.
“We can have someone out to you in an hour,” the man said.
To be fair, we were in a rural area.
I pulled the car over to park under the nearest tree because it was 93 degrees out and I didn’t want to leave it running. About five minutes into our wait, with the images of the tire-changing scene from A Christmas Story dancing through my head, I turned to Nicky and said, “You know what? We can change this tire. C’mon, son!” (Of course, I hoped neither of us would drop the F bomb!)
We opened the trunk, grabbed the spare (which resembles a doughnut more than a tire these days) and the tire iron. It took us thirty minutes and a lot of sweat, but we changed that tire! And for those thirty minutes, for the first time in years, I was reminded of what it might have been like for my dad so many years ago—to be engaged in a physical act with my son, showing him how to do it just like my dad would have done.
Although I’m not as handy as my dad was, in so many ways he inspired me to become the father I am today. For example, he was never afraid to show his emotions, positive or negative. He was a big hugger and kisser at a time when men were very macho and didn’t embrace like they do today.
I remember visiting relatives and going in for a hug and a kiss with my uncles only to be stiff-armed; they’d keep me at arm’s length with their left hand while thrusting their right hand out to shake. In the sixties and seventies, real men shook hands. End of story. Not my dad. He was the original “Bring it in here, hug it out” guy.
Dad enjoyed life. He played on the softball team at work, wore bell-bottom jeans and from time to time went out for drinks with his buddies. He was the kind of guy who got a little tipsy and put his arms around everyone. It wasn’t unusual for him to give his friends a great big bear hug or a peck on the cheek. He demonstrated that you could be a caring, gentle, loving person and still be a man. That there was nothing wrong with showing people how you felt.
It’s no secret that I wasn’t an athletic child. My interest was in animation—especially cartoons and movies. My father never once pushed me into sports just because he was passionate about playing. You see, when it came to his children, my father’s philosophy was “Don’t do what you want; do what your kid needs.” So instead of tossing the ball around, we watched The Flintstones together and talked about cartoons and comic books. He nurtured my interest in the audiovisual by giving me a 35mm camera, a reel-to-reel tape recorder and a movie camera. His goal wasn’t to push me to do what he liked but to share in my interests and to provide whatever I needed for support.
I’ve never forgotten what that felt like as a kid and have carried that into my role as dad, whether it’s spending time cooking with Courtney, talking music with Leila or doing anything that involves electronics with Nicky—it’s all about connection.
My number one job as dad is to make sure my kids know I will do everything necessary to make them safe and whatever they need in order to feel safe. I never once doubted for a moment that I was safe as long as my dad was around, and I want to pass that security on to my children.
My dad retired from his job when he was fifty-five years old. He enjoyed his job, and the minute he wasn’t enjoying it anymore, he knew it was time to leave. I think a lot of people hang in there and stay a little too long—often because they need the money, but sometimes because they just aren’t quite ready to move into the next phase of their lives, whether it’s a career change or retirement. My dad wasn’t that guy. The second he wasn’t enjoying himself anymore, he quit and never looked back. He didn’t need to stay until he turned sixty-five—fortunately, as it turned out, because he passed away when he was sixty-nine years old.
When my dad retired, the person who took it the hardest was my mom. She was not ready to have him at home. The first couple of months were rough. I heard “I am going to kill your father” a lot before they found a happy balance. A lot of couples don’t realize that while you might be ready for change, your partner may not be. The change in routine was hard for Mom to take.
Watching my dad in retirement, I learned something else from him: Never stop moving. Never stop evolving. Right after he retired, he started a mentoring program at a local middle school. He deepened a nascent love of jazz. He indulged in his passion for deep-sea fishing, and he got a posse of fellow retired transit workers together for a twice-weekly walk for exercise around the local mall, followed by coffee and cake at their favorite coffee shop—thereby negating the effects of the walk. God, I miss him.
That feeling of safety my dad gave me as a boy lasted until the day he died. I suppose that’s why losing him hit me as h
ard as it did. No matter how old I was, as long as he was alive, I knew there was this other person around who was my safety net. Sure, I have my wife and family, but my dad—well, there’s nothing like the bond between a son and his father. He was my rock—my touchstone. Even when I visited him in his hospital room in his final days, I felt safe being in there because he was there too.
I always want my kids to feel that.
We lost my mom only three months after the passing of my father. I have always said that the worst thing in the world is that they went quickly and the best thing in the world is that they went quickly. I mean, it was horrible to lose both of them in quick succession, but I’m glad neither suffered for long. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about them and miss them. I would do anything to have them back. But that being said, I feel incredibly blessed that they were my parents.
There was a legendary journalist in New York I got to know over the years. At his retirement dinner, his son got up and spoke.
“With Dad, we always knew his job came first,” he said.
I’m certain his son meant those words in the best way, but I thought to myself, “I never want my kids to feel that way.” I have always made them my first priority—and will always reassure them they are my number one.
Finally, I have to say that losing my parents has made me a lot less likely to sweat the small stuff. One life is all you get, so enjoy it! None of us knows how much time we have—and we never know if it is time for us to get off the stage or just change theaters. At this point in my life, I face challenges and change with one single question: “What’s the worst that could happen?” If the answer doesn’t come back “DEATH,” I’m confident I can always figure something out.
DEBORAH
Many Ways to Say I Love You
Been There, Done That Page 14