Father Shock

For the last few weeks the mothers in my family have all been clattering about my little boy getting teeth. Granted, he’s been drooling and sucking on anything that gets within inches of his face, but I just didn’t believe them. He’s always so smiley and never really seems uncomfortable.

So yesterday it became official, they know more than I do; he’s got a tooth! Just one and I really wouldn’t call it a tooth; it’s more of a nub. Not really good for eating beef jerky or smiling at the ladies, but it’s a start. Apparently he’s going to have twenty of these little “primary” teeth when he’s done. He’s got a lot of work to do.

It never ceases to amaze me how our bodies work. You might say, “How can you get excited about such a little moment?” Well, I’m eager to share life with my son. A tooth means at some point he will be able to shape sounds and speak. It means food, real food with interesting tastes and textures. It seems like each day he and I get a little closer. Interactions have grown in complexity, moving from random eye contact to intentional laughter and hand motions. I want to know him and I want him to know me and a tooth is a simple step in that direction.

So apparently the teething process takes some time. Most kids have their full set of primary teeth by the age of two or three. The teeth arrive in stages, and appear with an assortment of annoying symptoms. They can increase irritability, cause drooling, chin rashes, discomfort in the jaw and ear, coughing, and more frequent interruptions in sleep (for baby and dad).

As this tooth has arrived so has the advice. I will no doubt be sorting through the recommendations of friends and family, choosing what remedies to attempt first. Suggestions like cold teething rings and baby Tylenol seem most reasonable. Though, I’m sure if I lose enough sleep I might be willing to try more extreme methods, like rubbing some Jack Daniels on his gums. A finger for him, and two for me…straight up!

My friends would describe me as even keel. Mellow and collected. Though, over the last few months I’ve been living outside myself. I’m finding the hat of fatherhood comfortable to wear; it’s just that it has to be on almost always. In the meantime, my party hat and drinking shoes are collecting dust in the closet.

Lately, each time I’ve met with friends for a casual evening, I’ve put both feet in my mouth. You know that obnoxious friend who’s constantly egging you on to stay out later, drink harder, and go home broke and exhausted? Well, that’s been me. In an effort to convince myself that fatherhood isn’t cramping my style, I’ve tortured my poor friends daring them to tie one on.

My wife, either from a place of wisdom or just out of sheer exhaustion, called my bluff. She contacted my friends and planned a night for me to go out. No strings attached, no curfews, no calls home, just a night of pure freedom. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened next. Just like any over compensating man in crisis would do, I went out and wasted my night of freedom on loads of booze and smokes. It was a mess.

I realized a few things the next day, as I nursed the worst hangover I’ve had in ten years. Fatherhood isn’t cramping my style; it is my style. While I love my friends and will always take pleasure in their company, I don’t have to do it from behind a stack of Budweisers. It proves nothing about my freedom to make choices and it does little to confirm my vitality.

Things are not as cut and dry as they might seem. Fatherhood is not a door that closes on the rest of your desires as you walk through it. In fact, every choice that stood before me as a single man stands there now. I just want different things. My desires no longer rest at the bottom of a bottle or in the dim neon lights of my favorite haunt. But it doesn’t mean I can’t visit from time to time… maybe with a little more composure.

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I’ve got a tank for a son. We made our first trip together to the pediatrician yesterday and the measuring sticks came flinging out like switch blades. He is nearly four months old, but carries the weight and the head of a ten month old. The guy is just off the chart in most of the areas they measure… If only these were calculations of intellect and charm, I think I would feel much more comfortable.

Insecurities I never new I had came racing to the surface. Protecting my own self-esteem from the vicious attacks of normalcy is bad enough. Now I gotta look out for this little guy as well. To make matters worse my wife and the judge (the doctor) were both grinning at me like I’m to blame, like I’m the one driving the chubby train.

So, the hour reeled on with question after question. When should he be rolling over? Is drooling normal? Why does he cry like that, is it ok? When can we expect him to crawl? How can we tell if he is overweight? So on and so on… There is so much to take in, so much to worry about. Is my child going to be smart, strong, charming, and slender, or at least close to my favorite pictures of normal? When it comes down to it, what ever his is, I made him that way…the pressure was maddening…

But just at the outside of this growing tornado of questions and judgments, sat a pudgy little man grinning and drooling from ear to ear. With his smiling eyes, he saved me from a spiraling mess of anxiety and concern. What a happy little guy. That’s what I want normal to look like. Take your conversion charts and slide rules and pitch’em. I wish I were that normal.

So the challenge, right from the start is to remember that version of my son. Happy and satisfied by simply being held on the lap of his father. Sure other indications of growth and health are important to monitor. But nothing is a better measure than that chubby little smile…

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My son was born three months ago. I’ve been waiting patiently for a moment of realization; things are changed forever. Everyone’s told me it would hit me in the face, a vicious cocktail of fear and exhilaration. So, I’ve pictured this epiphany as a ton of bricks or with images of a life flashing before my eyes. The truth though, is that it’s appeared as small flickers, brightening many moments. A slow ooze of understanding.

A weekend ago it was Halloween and I believe it is the right of all grown men to dawn the drawers of their favorite hero or goblin. To touch beers with friends and ogle over a French maid or a naughty girl scout. Ritual is in our nature. In fact, I might go as far to suggest, that all the Halloween years leading up to the this adult version of myself have been nothing more than preparation for this very important celebration of manhood.

At last, I find myself on a street corner with a small drooling chicken for a sidekick. Cooing into the cool October evening, he and I make our way from house to house. Stopping every few blocks, we are met by older men, men who have long since mourned the passing of the Halloween keg stand or the dive bar costume contest. Their sidekicks have swiftly grown into the stars of their own shows. As we pass, knowing glances send new Halloween chills down my spine. Their grins hold back well-earned secrets and satisfactions.

Looking past self-pity, I silenced the calls of less experienced men and abandoned my former Halloween self. Pushing my phone deep into my pocket we carry on into the night. Some things have to give; the rights of the father pass to the son. When I put that chubby little Halloween chicken to bed, I found something truly gratifying about our evening. I’m not completely sure, but I think the idea of being his tour guide to the world is pretty damn cool.  He doesn’t understand any of this Halloween hullabaloo and he won’t for a while. What he does know is that his dad will be standing right next to him sharing in celebration and protecting him from the boogieman. That makes up for the missing schoolgirls and fallen angles… just barely.