January 10: My Son

Four years ago, when the ultrasound tech told my wife and me that we were having a boy, I panicked.  I am not your typical "guy."  I can't stand football or basketball or hockey or baseball (basically, any organized sporting event).  I don't hunt or fish, which, for a man living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, places me squarely in the brother from an alien mother category.  In fact, if I'm being perfectly honest, I prefer the company of women.  Spending two weeks at camp hunting deer with a group of unshaven, unbathed men is my idea of  cruel and unusual punishment.  Basically, I thought I was ill-equipped to be a father to a son.

This unease did not abate during my wife's pregnancy.  In fact, by the time my son was born, I was actually praying he would turn out to be a gay dancer/writer/cook/fashion designer.  At least we would have something to talk about.  Of course, God has a sense of humor.  He gave me a son who loves trucks and motorcycles and bugs and lizards.  He gave me a son who told me a couple of days ago, "When I grow up, I want to be a football player and a fireman."  He's four years old and already he's becoming a stereotype.  At the very least, he could have said, "When I grow up, I want to be a football player and a fireman and host great Oscar night parties with all my artist friends."

My son has always seemed more attached to my wife than to me.  That's normal, I think.  My daughter is a daddy's girl, and my son is a mommy's boy.  Before today, I'd sort of convinced myself that I was going to be this embarrassment of a father who sat in the bleachers reading the newest John Irving novel while his son scored touchdowns or made three-pointers.

Today, I visited my son's classroom.  That might not sound like such a significant event.  However, when my wife walked through the door of the classroom before me, my son smiled and clapped.  When he saw me, he ran right past her and threw his arms around my legs.  He kept saying "Daddy!  Daddy!" like he hadn't seen me in months.  Then he took me by the hand and led me around for the next hour or so.  He showed me where he was sitting.  He showed me his snack.  He showed me where I should sit (right next to him).  He tried to give me food.  When it was circle time, he sat in my lap.  And he kept rubbing my arm and face with his hands, giving me kisses, saying things like, "I so happy."

Maybe I'm going to be OK.  Maybe all I have to do is tell my son I love him, hug him, and, occasionally, play cars and motorcycles with him.  (I draw the line at fishing and hunting.  That's up to his uncles.)  And maybe my son will host an occasional Oscar night party to please the old man.  Maybe, just maybe, he will be proud to have me as a father.

Saint Marty so happy.

Maybe my son won't need the bag