Familyhood

  It’s easy to go along with your wife and kids when they’re being nice and sweet and reflecting well upon your family name. That’s not loyalty; that’s taking a free ride on the love train. That’s basking in the warmth of their pleasing, pleasant ways. When my little guy plays drums in the school play and I tap every parent in the auditorium on the shoulder to say, “That’s my boy!”—that’s not loyalty. That’s just me unable to control my bursting heart. When my big guy works on a presentation for class and then nails it perfectly in front of the whole school, and I see him beam with pride and self-confidence as he accepts the heartfelt applause of his peers, that’s not loyalty that makes my face hurt from smiling so hard and trying not to cry at the same time. That’s just a parental cookie. That’s a treat you get once in a while—a reward for hanging in there.

  Loyalty is when it’s not so easy. When your kid is being whiny and rude, or trying out poop jokes on his grandmother and her friends, or entering a room full of company naked and holding a Star Wars Light Saber in a very special way—try applauding then. Stand up with pride then and tell everyone, “I’m with him!” That’s loyalty.

  You don’t do it because you approve of the behavior. You do it because you’re family. And loyalty is a small price to pay for all the good things they do, all the proud moments they give. And all the loyalty they send your way when you embarrass them by wearing that hat they begged you not to, or tell a story for the thousandth time and they listen anyway. Loyalty is what you do.

  And my wife is nothing if not a doer. This is a get-it-done gal. And if her children are involved, it will most assuredly get done, and my heart goes out to anyone who—intentionally or not—gets in her way.

  We were traveling a few years ago and checked in to our hotel later than we’d expected. By the time we got up to our rooms, the kids, much younger at the time, were hungry and tired. My wife called for room service.

  “Sorry,” they said. “We’re closed.”

  My wife, very sweetly, convinced them that they were in fact not closed, because our boys were hungry. After a few volleys of parries and thrusts and artfully veiled threats, the poor guy relented.

  “Fine. What would you like?”

  This was when the boys ate only, maybe, two things, one of which was pasta.

  “Sorry,” said the still-not-getting-it room service fellow. “We don’t have pasta.”

  Again, even more sweetly, my wife convinced him that a tip-top kitchen like theirs must surely have some pasta somewhere, even if it’s not, as he reported, on the menu at this hour. “In fact,” she offered, “if you want, I can come down and help you look, if that’d be easier for you.”

  Needless to say, she didn’t have to go anywhere. Within minutes, the nice fellow was at our door with two steaming bowls of pasta for our very appreciative children. My wife gave him a gracious and heartfelt thank-you and he left looking not that much worse for the ordeal. In fact, he seemed rather pleased with himself. It was a win-win situation.

  This ferocious lioness instinct may have always been part of my wife’s personality, I’m not sure. I do know it was already intact and fully operational from the instant she first became a mother.

  When our older son was born, he was kept in the hospital for several months, fighting his way forward day by day. But he didn’t do it alone. My wife was there at his side, vigilant, proactive, and tireless. I was there too—when I wasn’t “busy” at work—a regretful ordering of priorities that, while justifiable, embarrasses me to this day.

  My wife, though, never left that hospital room. She had her eyes on everyone who came to his bed, and her eyes out for the others who should have come but were momentarily elsewhere. She spent every waking moment making sure our son had the best care, the best treatment, and the best chance. She never left; her lion cub was sick. Nothing would take her away from fighting for him. Her loyalty was so strong, so fierce, it humbled me, almost frightened me. But it saved our son and made us a family.

  So, if someday, while taking that very family to the museum or the zoo or a concert that’s absurdly overcrowded, the mother of my children feels compelled to cut in line because she believes it’s what her children need, am I going to complain? Yes—but quietly. And to myself.

  And to all the people behind us in line—that day, and any day it may happen in the future—I sincerely apologize. It was wrong of us. It’s just that . . . It’s very . . . See, we’re not really . . . She just . . .

  You talk to her.

  Currency

  Once in a while I get it just right.

  We’re in the ocean, my younger son and I, and he’s playing in the waves, being brave, or pretending to be brave. (Not that there’s a difference; brave is brave, as far as I’m concerned.)

  My little brown-haired seal of a son is having the time of his life, up to his chest in cool ocean water, jumping up to meet each new wave with palpable anticipation and joy. Except every once in a while there’s a wave a bit larger than he’d like. I see him hesitate and steady himself for the inevitable, because in the ocean, there’s no negotiating; that wave is coming whether you like it or not.

  I stand nearby; close enough to grab him should he need grabbing, far enough away (and behind him) so he doesn’t feel I’m cramping his style. As I watch him gauge each incoming wave with keenly focused consideration, I’m impressed—not to mention relieved; this is a kid who bounds through life with such seeming fearlessness, I am thrilled to see him, in fact, register fear when a small dose of fear is exactly what’s called for.

  Every third or fourth wave, I notice him turn ever so slightly to make sure I’m there. I am indeed. Happy to be there. No—much more than happy. Ecstatic to be there, enjoying such splendor with my son. Happy to see my child literally find his place in the universe. Watching him inch deeper and deeper into the world with all that I would hope he would bring: determination, exuberance, some caution, and the capacity to adjust as needed. My heart pulses with sheer, unending love.

  I SOMETIMES WONDER if a child can ever be too loved. Probably not.

  I know my children know they’re loved. I’m not shy about telling them so in unedited, unrestrained, unconditional declarations. In fact, I once said—to this very same son—“Hey, did I ever tell you I love you?” (This was meant to be humorously rhetorical, since we both knew quite well I say it all the time.) His response? A slight rolling of the eyes and a perfectly annoyed “Yes, you did. Too much, frankly.”

  Boy, that made me laugh. I was very gratified that he had such an abundance of love in his life that he could comfortably afford to shoo away any intrusive excess. (I also, frankly, loved his use of the word “frankly.” Not necessarily common sentence structure for a little kid.)

  But his point was well taken; too many “I love you’s” can be too much. (Still better than too few, but a good point nonetheless.) The problem with saying it too often is it starts to lose its impact. It becomes devalued. Like the Italian lira; when eight thousand of them only amount to one can of orange soda, each one seems to not be worth that much. Too many unfiltered expressions of adoration and it all becomes meaningless white noise.

  So I’ve learned to contain myself. To hold back the number of “I love you’s” I let fly in my kids’ direction. Just like the Federal Reserve, sometimes you have to rein in and limit the supply of currency so as to retain its worth.

  Looking at it for a moment from the other side of the coin, I know confidently that my children love me, but I wouldn’t necessarily want to be peppered with verbal reminders from them either. Sure it’s sweet, and a well-timed affirmation like that can sustain an emotionally deprived parent for months.

  But to be honest, when my kids do, on the rare occasion, let forth an “I love you, Daddy,” I’m suspicious. I figure they either want something, broke something, or are saying it because it’s easier than saying what’s really on their mind—like “There’s something hanging out of your nose,” or “I can’t believe you j
ust called that guy Ed; his name is Justin. You’re just wrong so often.”

  And even if none of the above were the case—even if they said “I love you” sincerely, unsolicited, and free of any ulterior motive—well . . . it could still be too much because I don’t always know what to do with that much tenderness at one time. It can be hard to hold.

  Fortunately, children have other currencies of affection besides straightforward verbal declaratives. When they come over and show you what they’ve made, when they repeat something they’ve heard that tickled them, when they reference something you said to them months earlier, when they call you something silly or when they grab your head and twist and poke a finger into your face and make horrendously rude noises—those are all universally accepted and highly valued currencies of love. I’ve come to realize that none of these are any less negotiable a currency than “I love you,” and in many ways they’re better, because they’re less predictable, less pedestrian, less “on the money.” Just as with gift giving, sometimes “cash” is just tacky; better to go the unexpected route.

  SO ON THIS BRILLIANT DAY at the beach, I marveled at the sight of my son frolicking in the water, and rather than try to impress upon him how great it was to watch him, or how unbelievably, deeply, irrevocably, and incessantly loved he is, or even to remind him that I was there if he needed help, I contained myself. I don’t do containment well. Or easily. But this time, I did. I said nothing—just enjoyed the moment and gave him his space.

  And then a funny thing happened. A really big wave was heading in, and my fearless son—very subtly and without a sound—reached back for me. With no ceremony or self-consciousness, he took my arm, and then the other, and wrapped them around his waist like a seat belt. He placed his hands on my forearms and pushed down a little—testing the strength of his emergency landing system. He leaned back into me for security, and the wave came. It broke over us, tossing us both up and off balance—and then lowered us back to standing. No harm done. He laughed, and then—again, with no fanfare and no words exchanged—my brave son let go of my arms, fixed his eyes on the next wave, and stood to meet it. On his own.

  That event—a span of maybe ten seconds—remains among the most fulfilling experiences of my life. My son needed me, and knew without looking that I’d be there for him.

  For my part, I was thrilled to have come through. I was able to provide exactly what he needed; to be his safe harbor, the lifeboat, silently there if called upon.

  If he gets to pretend he’s always brave, then I get to pretend too. I get to pretend that this is how it will always be; that I’ll be there for him forever, in and out of the ocean, ready to let him wrap himself up in me until the wave passes.

  And all of this happened without a word exchanged. I didn’t have to say anything or do anything. I had only to be there.

  Like I say: once in a while I get it just right.

  The Empty Nest

  During the last earthquake, the electricity went out in our house. Actually, it may not have been an earthquake. It could have just been high winds. Or a guy working on the cable TV. Or a coyote playing games, it’s hard to tell; unless a meteor slams specifically into your house, you never know exactly why the power goes out. It just does.

  Unlike most people, I kind of like when the power goes out. As a responsible person who pays his electric bills, and who is also in no way handy around the house and could therefore never do anything with wires that might cause an outage, I enjoy basking in the knowledge that if the power does go out, it couldn’t possibly be my fault. That right there is a nice treat.

  To me, the power going out is like a free, safe holiday. Sure, if I was hooked up to an iron lung, I might feel differently. But as emergencies go, the power going out is the best. Beats the heck out of a tsunami or a military insurrection.

  I like how quiet things get when there’s no power. The whir of the air-conditioner, the soft gurgle of the water heater, the barely perceptible zizzzing of all your big and little appliances—it all just stops. Suddenly your house is just your house: four walls and a roof holding in you and your family, and air. It’s a refreshingly existential experience. All you have is each other. (And the sound of ice cream melting in your freezer.) You have nothing to do but talk, and see each other anew. You can imagine what it must have been like before all our devices stole our attention. You can almost hear everything sighing, enjoying a much needed moment to breathe.

  And then, as it always does, the power comes back. The whirring and zizzzing begins again, and life returns to normal. But for an instant, as everything kicks back into gear, I catch myself wishing the power had stayed off just a little longer. Because it’s in those quiet moments that I realize that what makes the house zizzz isn’t the electricity or all the machines and gizmos we clutter our days with. It’s the people inside the house. It’s the ones you love that make your house hum.

  And it was with this recognition that I steeled myself for the day last summer when both my boys were going away to summer camp for the first time, leaving my wife and me alone with nothing but four walls, a roof, and a symphony of electric humming and zinging. I dreaded the silence.

  EVER HEARD THE CLICHÉ “A home without the sounds of children is just a house”? Well, to that I would like to say: “Yes, but it sure is a nice place to read the friggin’ newspaper in peace and quiet!” It sure is a lovely opportunity to have a conversation without forty-seven interruptions. To eat a meal without someone discovering new ways to make milk disgusting. To not jump to mop up spilled juice. To not cringe at the sound of someone small crashing into something hard and unyielding. To not have to threateningly count backward from three to get the TV turned off. To not bark the words “He asked you to stop, so just stop!” To not have to answer questions you either don’t know the answer to or can’t answer because it will lead to a hundred more questions you don’t feel like answering . . . The whole thing is just a delightful change of pace.

  This surprised me, I have to say. I couldn’t believe the unabashed glee with which my wife and I skipped about the house; the thrill of finding ourselves alone for the first time in . . . seemingly forever.

  And we had charted out some pretty ambitious plans for ourselves. We were going to eat whatever we wanted whenever we wanted. We would watch every show we had recorded but never managed to actually see. We were going to prance naked in parts of the house heretofore unaccustomed to our nakedness. A second honeymoon is what we had here. And much more deserved than the first one, really, because what were we running away from back then? A few consecutive meals with parents and friends? An awaiting pile of obligatory thank-you notes? The returning of a few rented tuxedos? That was nothing. This honeymoon was deserved. After months on end of school, homework, scheduling appointments, playdates, pickups, drop-offs . . . the zizzz and whir of life, we’d earned this. The chance to be an actual loving couple for a few blessed weeks.

  So with a quick check of the email to see that the kids arrived safely at camp, we were off. Mom and Dad’s first time at Camp “How Great Is This?” was under way.

  Admittedly, it took a little getting used to. It was an odd sensation, for example, to realize we didn’t have to constantly check the time. It didn’t matter that it was after nine; no one had to get to bed. We didn’t have to talk in code or lower our voices to volumes audible only to each other and certain breeds of dogs; there was no one else there. We could do whatever we wanted. Crazy things. Like go out for a coffee and come back whenever we felt like it! It was a New World, I tell you. And I liked it.

  Till around ten-fifteen. Then it felt really odd. The quiet was unsettling. As we headed upstairs to go to bed (so much for the late nights of reckless abandon we had planned), I went through my nightly lock-down ritual: I checked the doors, checked the windows, and walked by the boys’ rooms. That’s when it hit me. Not that they weren’t in the rooms—I knew that. Not even that I missed them; I’d anticipated that, and even believe that missing
the ones you love is not such a terrible thing once in a while. What rocked me completely was realizing that this thing I do every night—stopping by their rooms to make sure they’re safe and sound—was clearly more for me than for them.

  Truth be told, on any given night, there’s very little that can go wrong between the time they head up for bed and the time they get into bed. That end-of-day sign-off, I only now realized, was for my benefit. It’s what made me feel like a father. It wasn’t the only thing, of course, but it was a crucial one. It gave me a sense of purpose. Maybe the last thing they saw before they closed their eyes didn’t really have to be me, but it filled my heart to think so. I hadn’t realized how completely my identity was defined by being the father of my kids. And with no kids around to actually father, what was I? Just a guy shutting off lights and sticking my head into empty rooms.

  I loped pathetically to the bedroom to commiserate with my wife. We noted the odd silence. Not that our kids are particularly noisy at this time of night, being sound asleep and all. But still, the fact that they were now being silent somewhere other than across the hall made me sad. And envious. I resented whatever idiot sixteen-year-old counselor it was that got to sleep in the same bunk with them. I was bitter that he didn’t even appreciate what he had there. I was like a dumped lover who spends an unhealthy amount of time picturing the ex with the new guy. “He’ll never love you like I love you.”

  THE DAYS WORE ON. Like Papillon, I took to making Xs on the calendar, awaiting the boys’ return. My wife and I tried to amuse ourselves out of our newfound funk. We played many rounds of Let’s See Who Can Go the Longest Without Talking About the Kids. Neither of us won. How did we live before we had kids? What did we talk about?