daviddwyernotebook

[daviddwyernotebook]

Cribside

My child sleeps, huddling in the corner of his crib against the padded border. His tiny fingers are curled about the edge of the blanket, upon which his identity, “BABY,” is spelled in capital pastels. At the other end of his bed, Cookie Monster, Mickey Mouse, and Brown Bear stand vigil, guarding his dreams against unhappy intrusions. His pudgy cheeks and button nose are just visible beneath the folds of the blanket. I move it from his face, being careful not to disturb his rest or his angelic pose. Long dark lashes lie against visibly soft ivory skin. His mouth is parted slightly, and I hear the small breaths as he takes them. Light downy hair, still sparse and tousled as always, completes the appearance of the life that has come and so changed mine.

            I stand beside him, as I sometimes do, and stare at those closed eyelids wondering what they hold for him, for me – for both of us.

            I am a father now, a role in which, after nearly twenty months, I am still surprised to find myself. I wonder how long it takes a person to be comfortable with the title “father.” When does the role become internalized? Perhaps a contributor to my identity crisis is the unpreparedness with which I entered this stage of life. Being college educated, I am familiar with the theories of Freud, Skinner, and Piaget. But the teachings and philosophies of these behavioral giants were quickly supplanted in my life by the indispensable Dr. Spock, who I now know is not the Vulcan on Star Trek. But even armed with this cornerstone of contemporary childrearing, I often find myself on the brink of panic and frustration.

            In all my education, not one hour was spent teaching me how to raise - let alone care for - a child. I find this particularly surprising as parenting is the one occupation a majority of the population will assume, whether they apply for the position or not. I was even conscientious and sought out a class entitled “The Sociology of Marriage and Family.” It was an interesting class, but the only thing I remember from it regarding children was that they are one of the things couples fight about. I know I am not unique in my ignorance. So how do people know what to do? How did my father know what to do? He never went to college.

            I am drawn from my mental wanderings at the thought of my father, and I focus once more on my son’s features. I have such hopes for him, and such fears.

            The father-son relationship is nothing new to me. I have been a part of one for twenty-nine years; it is just the perspective that has changed. Will my relationship with my son be like the one I share with my father? The thought startles me with concern.

            I am not alone in my discomfort. Television shows from Oprah to the Simpsons support this. Is a son ever at ease with his father?

            Not that Dad and I do not get along. We do, better than most fathers and sons I know. We survived the maturation skirmishes and now enjoy a pleasant coexistence - three hundred plus miles apart.

            Dad was a good father. He did of all the right things. He spectated my events, coached Little League, sent me to church, and taught me the value of hard work. Heck, he even gave the old sex talk a shot (a task I am already dreading). So what has he done to earn my discomfort?

            There is an ominousness to the title “Father.” The word alone conjures expectations that most Greek and Roman gods would shun. But worse are the expectations the son applies to himself on his father’s behalf.

            It was always obvious to me that fathers have an agenda for their sons mapped out early, perhaps before conception. The number of “& Son” companies in the yellow pages evidence this. Fathers also include their sons in their outings: the fishing trips, the football games, and the car shows. It is an American right of passage, the first hunting trip at the threshold age of twelve. I still remember mine. We did not get anything. We never did. Even then I was old enough to know that was not the point. Sons, it seems, represent a “create your own friend.” Only it does not work out that way.

            Though ten odd years of summer and Christmas vacations were spent apprenticing the family business, Dad did not get his “& Son.” The hours logged camping and hunting did not bring Dad a woodsman to brave the wilds with; I am more comfortable with the concrete of any city than the smallest of woods. I enjoy reading and even write when I get the chance, while I wager that, if pushed, Dad could count the number of novels he has read. Dad likes Westerns and Charles Bronson movies; I like Science Fiction and Shakespeare. Dad enjoys golf and skiing, I like tennis and running. Dad is a contractor; I am an accountant. We live over three hundred miles apart.

            Given the plans he must have had, that every father has, this all must disappoint him terribly. But I, like him, am who and what I am. Knowing this does not alleviate the guilt.

            Timothy sighs in his sleep as he rolls over, dislodging the blanket from his shoulders. I bring it once more to his neck. His face is so peaceful and innocent; he is keenly unaware of the demands I will place upon him simply by my existence. And when will this occur? When will the excited jumps and repeated cries of “Daddeee” upon my arrival give way to something else?

            Are we, this child – my child – and I destined to have so little in common? Will there be no experience for us to share?

            Timothy’s lips curl into a small smile and I conclude that he is having a happy dream. His stuffed guardians have done well this night. I acknowledge their competence with a quick glance.

            Did I have something to do with this contentedness? Will I do something tomorrow to disrupt it? The next day? The responsibility I feel is nauseating. Is any man up to this task?

            I wonder if others share my anxiety. I think they must. My thoughts turn once more to my father. I picture him, almost three decades earlier, watching his first-born sleep, wondering what will become of he and him – of him and me.

            The hopes and fears and questions he must have had. Were they not the same that now possess me? I conclude that they must have been. And then I think again of the differences that have separated us for all these years. Differences that I knew to disappoint my father. I recall now how he encouraged my interest in reading and in writing, and how he never really did force his hobbies on me, and how thrilled he was when I went to college. He must have known that the results of these actions would take me from him, at least in some small way. Supportive and believing is how I recall my father’s role in my childhood. And mostly encouraging, even when the behavior he rallied behind meant losing the surely coveted “& Son.”

            As Timothy sleeps, I wish him more than peaceful dreams. I wish him the happiness that every child deserves, in whatever it is that will bring it to him. And I will encourage him along the way, though the path he chooses may take him a thousand miles from me in more ways than one. This is the agenda I have for my son.

            Standing alone in the darkness permeated only by the smallest sliver of light from the hall, I smile. Dad and I do have something in common, perhaps life’s most important experience.

            I gently brush my child’s hair with my fingertips and whisper “sleep well,” echoing the thought in my mind to my father. I wish us all well this night, we who are so connected. And to my father, I add a mental “thank you,” for, as I slip from the nursery on my toes, I realize that while the public school system and state university may have failed to prepare me, one man did not.