The Horrors of Parenting. . .

Enter at Your Own Risk! (Seriously. . . Consider Yourself Warned.)

I Never Wanted a Kid. . .

When I was younger it was because I was selfish.

As I got older it was because I was scared. Scared I wouldn’t be good at it. (Turns out the best you can hope for is “good enough.”) Scared I wouldn’t be able to afford it. (Turns out money’s important, but not the only way to provide for a child . . . which is good since I’ve never been good at making it.) And, most importantly, scared I would feel too much . . . that the love I’d have for my child would be so intense, so deep, so pure it’d be dangerous. Dangerous to me. Dangerous to others around me.

When I decided to become a parent despite my reservations, I was talking with my therapist and he asked, “Ok, but what are you really scared of?”

“In all honesty,” I sighed, “ending up on the road.”

“What?” he asked.

“You know, Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.”

“I’ve never read it,” he said.

“Well, then we can’t be friends.”

“We’re not friends,” he said.

“Fair,” I said. “I suppose we could be if I ever got my shit together, but regardless...The Road is about a man and his boy trying to survive in a post apocalyptic world. At one point they encounter some cannibals who keep people alive in their basement so they can eat them slowly, body part by body part. The boy and man discover this and run away and hide in some bushes. While they’re waiting to see if the cannibals are going to find them, the man holds a gun to his son’s head. The man had a gun with two bullets, and he was going to shoot his son first and then himself. This scares the shit out me. Not necessarily the cannibal part, that would suck. And, yeah, needing to kill my kid to protect him from being eaten slowly over time is incomprehensible, but also highly unlikely. But, the love and selflessness necessary to do, that will be there regardless, and that’s a very dangerous place to live. The likelihood of getting crushed by that kind of love is really, really high.”

Turns Out I was (Partially) Right. . .

The love I have for my son is indeed dangerous. I’ve always been a “live and let live” sort of guy, but when it comes to my son’s well-being, not so much. I can say without a shred of doubt, I’d kill anyone who threatened P’s life. I wouldn’t even give it a second thought. You break into my house while my son is sleeping, I’ll kill you. No questions asked. No chance to explain. You’re done and I won’t feel bad about it. You attack or abuse my son, you’d better hope the cops find you first, and that I die before you get out of prison. (The jury’s out on if someone hurts him, or he dies, as a result of accident, negligence, or illness as with say a drunk driver.) Don’t get me wrong...I’m not proud of this, and I know it’s not rational. It simply is. And it’s scary.

It makes me feel unhinged, like I live surrounded by powder kegs just waiting for a spark. The thought of being this out of control should scare anyone who isn’t already insane. I just thank God it isn’t something I have to deal with daily. For me, it’s akin to living in close proximity to Mount St. Helens...the possibility of an eruption is very low, but if it happens the devastation will be total. This helps keep the cost low, but others aren’t so fortunate. For them, the need to protect their kid(s) is constant and real.

My heart breaks for them. The hardships, the abuse, the struggles, the sufferings, the senseless and untimely deaths of children around the world are a crime against humanity. And for each of those losses, there are parents whose lives will be forever altered. Since becoming a father I’m incapable of looking, hearing, or simply thinking about the death, or suffering, of a child without seeing it reflected in my son’s eyes. But, I get off easy.

If I’m devastated by the possibility, just imagine the experience in reality. It’s a parent’s worst nightmare come to life. All of our lives, including those of our children, are impermanent. Every parent knows this, but we bury it in order to live, work, and play. And while we have no control over when, or how, death comes for any of us, the greatest injustice is when a parent outlives a child. God have mercy on anyone who’s responsible for P leaving the world before I do, because I sure as hell won’t.

Within an Inch of Breaking. . .Everyday. . .

However, just because you don’t have to worry about your kid dying on a daily basis, doesn’t mean you get off scot-free. It’s a privilege obviously, but even under ideal conditions parenting is no bed of roses. There are approximately 2 billion kids in the world, and of those 426 million are estimated to be in harm’s way. This means there are way too many parents struggling to keep their kids alive, but a significantly larger number of parents, like me, whose horrors aren’t life and death, but aren’t any less real.

Earlier this year I came down with a bad case of insomnia. It sucked. I’ve always been a good sleeper. I love to sleep. I need to sleep. Even when I was a teen, I was always the first one to head home at night. I simply preferred a good night’s sleep to whatever else might happen. A lack of quality sleep deeply effects your physical and mental well-being. You become accident prone. Your emotional regulation falters. You slowly become a shell of yourself, walking around in a sort of half-human haze. Insomnia feeds on itself too, which makes getting sleep even harder. It was in this quasi-delusional, sleep-deprived state that I remembered getting a lower GI series as a kid.

I went through a period of time, I’m guessing weeks, but it might’ve been months where I couldn’t eat a full meal without feeling sick. I remember being hungry and starting to eat only to stop after a few bites with a dull, albeit intense nausea. I don’t remember any of the discussions leading up to this rather drastic procedure, but I assume my parents and my doctors were at their wits end. Otherwise, I doubt I would’ve ended up with my little ass hanging out of a hospital gown.

Some background. Growing up I didn’t have a good relationship with my grandfathers, but I lived next door to an old guy who was a kind of surrogate. I spent a lot time with him and loved him. I would sit and wait on the ledge of our double-wide’s bow window waiting for him to walk out to his truck and wave for me to come over. I’d jump down, holler to my mom that I was going with Jim, and bolt out the front door.

I’d run across the street and spend hours watching his model trains, drinking Epler’s milk and eating cookies at his kitchen counter, or driving down to visit the railroad yards where he worked before retiring. At some point he planned a camping trip for us. I don’t remember the details, but I must’ve feigned excitement despite being terrified. I was a sensitive kid, and nighttime was the worst. I struggled to feel safe and comfortable even under the best conditions. So spending a night away from home, while sleeping in a tent would’ve been unthinkable, but I’m guessing not as unthinkable as “disappointing” Jim, so I kept my mouth shut.

Instead of being open and honest about how I felt I swallowed my feelings, essentially “filling up my belly.” It wasn’t until after the lower GI series that I found the courage to speak up. When I did the trip was cancelled and I was able to eat again without discomfort. The power of the mind is truly something.

Fast forward to my recent struggles with insomnia. It wasn’t a camping trip this time, but something just as upsetting. I stumbled upon a story one night as I was scrolling through Apple News before bed. I doubt it made national headlines. I only saw it once, but that was enough.

The story was about a father who died of a heart attack. Sad, but nothing earth shattering, until you learn he was in charge of his two year old son at the time. So, this little two year old boy saw his father die. If the story ended there, it’d be bad enough. But, it doesn’t. Because for some unknown, God forsaken reason, no one checked in on the father, and so no one heard what must’ve been the uncontrollable wails and cries of the boy in the following days, until they stopped too. When someone finally showed up, it was too late, the little boy was dead as well.

Even to this day I have to actively stop my mind from running amok and conjuring up the unspeakable terror, horrors, fears, and realities this little boy endured during his final days. This tiny boy’s suffering sickens me. The tragedy is only eclipsed for me by knowing that his father would’ve died knowing his death lead his boy to suffer like this, and that under any other circumstances than his own death, he would’ve died to protect him.

After reading it, I was mortified. I was so deeply shocked and tortured by it that I refused to tell anyone. I thought it was, and still do on some level, too traumatic to share (remember, you were warned). I took it upon myself to foolishly hold the grief I felt in my heart, to carry its burden so no one else would ever need to hear about it. I thought if I locked it up inside I could keep it from infecting the world, but instead I only succeeded in infecting myself, and before long I couldn’t sleep. After several of weeks of sleepless nights the chalky pink barium I choked down came back to me and I knew what I needed to do. I broke down, literally, and told my therapist (I figured this is why I pay him). That night I fell asleep and didn’t wake until the morning.

Prior to being a father, there’s little chance this story would’ve bothered me like it did. Even if I’d thought about it for a day or two, it wouldn’t have kept me up at night. But that’s not my life anymore. When I read the story, my son was just slightly older than the dead boy. That made it personal, and enduring these horrors is part and parcel of being a parent. When my son arrived in the pre-dawn hours of a locked down pandemic world, who and what I was changed forever. And that transformation has come at a cost.

No One Here Gets Out Alive. . .

So many things require so much more, and different, consideration now. Take my own death. I’ve always thought a lot about it, but since P showed up the calculus has changed. My death is no longer just about me. You can rest assured nothing like the above will happen to him. I’ve seen to it. I make sure anytime he and I are solo for an extended period of time that someone checks in on us. These “babysitters” serve a dual purpose. They give me a moment to catch my breath, but unbeknownst to them and my wife who arranges them, they give me a sense of security that should something happen to me, my son would survive.

Prior to P’s arrival I never cared much about dying. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but life has never been easy for me. I’ve never felt like I belonged here. So, not existing for eternity, or be free momentarily of the trials and tribulations associated with this body, never sounded all that bad. But now, I’ll leave a son behind. And if I leave before the age of 5 or 6, there’s a good chance he won’t remember me. Sure, a few core memories might survive, like going to pick up our new chain saw last week, or sitting and watching shows in the morning as his mum got a few extra moments of shut-eye. But who I was will be gone, and largely unavailable to him.

That’s why I started a “journal” for him. Everyday or every couple of days, I sit down and pen a few thoughts. Some of them are about me, what I was like, what people didn’t understand about me, or what I was thinking. Some are life lessons I wish I’d realized, or been told sooner. Some are me telling him how much I love him, how proud I am of him, how he’s perfect just the way he is, and how he doesn’t need to be anything other than himself. If I die before he’s old enough to understand, someone will give it to him when it’s time. If I live long enough, then I’ll do it. Either way, he’ll have something of me and know how incredibly important he was to me.

Open the Flood Gates. . .

I’ve always hid my emotions, sometimes more successfully than others, and sometimes for one reason or another. I’ve always felt things too deeply and over the years developed strategies to keep it together and accommodate those around me. Those days are gone. Little did I know these time tested strategies would crumbled like a deck of cards with the emotions that come with being a father. If I see a video of pizza delivery guy running into a burning house to rescue a bunch of kids, or a bus driver saving a choking child, or a terminally ill little boy scoring a touchdown with his favorite college team, I’m wrecked.

I’m sure getting older plays a part. I probably can’t chock it all up to becoming a dad. As men age they remind me of Vulcans, who, if you don’t know, control/repress their emotions until they break down and go insane in the end. So, these are just the first cracks of my inevitable collapse. Whatever the case, I don’t suggest sitting next to me when I watch It’s a Wonderful Life this year. When the townsfolk of Bedford Falls pour into George’s living room and Ernie Bishop reads the wire from Sam Wainwright, there’ll be no stemming the tide.

But this is fine. I’m glad I’ve reached a point where I’m comfortable openly sobbing regardless how it makes others feel. And sure, I’ve read the news, I know men expressing their feelings is “cool,” but I don’t buy it. There might’ve even been a time when I’d relish this new found ability to cry as an act of defiance against those who lament male stoicism, but fail to accommodate its expression. But not any more. I couldn’t care less about proving points. I’ve bigger fish to fry. I have a boy to raise and I want him to see he can be and feel whatever he wants. And how else will he learn this unless I show him? Oddly enough, he’s the one who’s given me the courage, the determination, and the conviction to do what’s best for him, which means being more fully myself.

Let’s Be Clear. . .

I’ve always tried to structure my life so I could be true to myself. At the end of the day, I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I would’ve liked to be somebody important, somebody who made the big bucks, or who achieved success as determined by the metrics of our deeply dysfunctional society, but it wasn’t in me. I couldn’t keep my fucking mouth shut, or my thoughts to myself. It would’ve cost too much. But I’d be lying if I didn’t own the fact that despite my best intentions, and probably more often and in more ways than I care to admit, I’ve come up short. I’ve let myself down. I’ve protected myself with too much bravado for too long. I’ve compromised in the name of comfort too often. And I’ve ignored things till the consequences come home to roost.

When I look back at these failures over my life there’s one thread connecting them; a need to protect the softer, squishier middle residing below my rougher exterior. 99.8% of people I’ve met don’t even know this part exists. The other .2% have an inkling of my marshmallow center. A handful, I could count them on one hand and have fingers left over, have got a bit deeper, but even they’ve barely managed to scratch the surface . . . again because I’ve seen to it. But this doesn’t work anymore. I’m a role model now, for better or worse. I’m a father. I have the most important job in the world, and failure is not an option.

And the only way to ensure success is to break down the walls, to dive headlong into the horrors, and to be the truest version of myself without qualification. This is what my son needs. This is what he deserves.

It’s All Become Obvious. . .

When I sat down to think about having a child, I literally couldn’t decide. I didn’t know how. There was no metric I could use. I’d never had one. How could I know what I didn’t know? I know there are people whose life calling, whose destiny is/was to be a parent. I’ve met them. They seem like nice people. That wasn’t me.

I knew what my life was like without a kid. It was fine, sometimes even better than fine. I could’ve easily imagined living like that till the end. Sure, I worried about where I’d spend holidays, and who’d take care of me when I was old, but there’s no guarantee your kid will do any of that, and these aren’t good reasons to have one. There were so many things I couldn’t know. What would I enjoy? What wouldn’t I? What would I gain? What would I lose? Who would I become?

You’re probably thinking, “Well, you could’ve just asked someone.” To which I say, “You clearly don’t have kids.” Any experienced parent will tell you the truth...there aren’t any answers to these questions, because they all depend on you and your kid. Turns out no two parenting experiences are alike, except for perhaps in the shared horrors.

It also didn’t help that I’ve never been particularly interested in planning for the future. Don’t bother asking me, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” It’s a stupid question. Think about where you were five years ago...could you in your wildest dreams imagine you’d be sitting where you are? I’m not talking about reading this (which I really, really appreciate by the way), but on a grand scale. I’m guessing there are a whole slew of “essential” things which you couldn’t even have dared to dream about. Looking to the future with your current vision is a recipe for coming up short. If your life is exactly the way you saw it, I kind of feel sorry for you.

When I look at my life, I sit back and marvel. There’s no way I could’ve possibly “planned” it as perfectly as it’s gone. The way things have fallen in place. The discoveries I’ve made. The man I’ve become. Even if I could’ve seen the end product, I would’ve never in a million years chosen the path I took to get here. Because while P’s arrival was the most unanticipated triumph of the last five years, and the main reason behind everything good in my life, it essentially came down to a coin flip...have a kid/don’t have a kid.

But I know I made the right decision because my son has cleared everything up, literally. I’m dead serious. I no longer suffer from doubt about anything. It’s all obvious to me. I’ve learned to pay attention, rather than lip service, to what really matters. Whenever I’m confronted with a decision, whether big or small, the answer is sitting right in front of me. All I have to do is look at P and ask, “What’s in his best interest?” It’s that easy. If he wants picked up, I pick him up. If he wants to play, I stop what I’m doing and I play. If he asks who’s a better singer, Art Garfunkel or Paul Simon, I tell him the truth...Garfunkel of course! There’s no room for equivocation and obfuscation about life and all it entails when your sole purpose is being a beacon for your son.

And as you might imagine, possessing this degree of certainty comes with its own kind of horror, especially in today’s world. We find ourselves in a time and place where we, as a people, seem incapable of simply speaking our minds and living our values. The tides are against us at every turn. Confidence and clarity carry a stigma, but I don’t care. It’s not about me. It’s about him and the world I can pass along. It’s about providing an example of what it means to walk a true path and live a good life, not in spite of the horrors, but because of them.

And, yes. I’m being a bit cheeky to make a point (but not about Garfunkel...Paul Simon is only good when he collaborates with other people...it’s a fact, look it up). Having a child simultaneously shrinks and enlarges your world. Your child is the center, but every child is someone’s center. You have to prioritize your center while figuring out how to the do the least amount of harm, at the very least, to everyone else’s center. There are so many more things which can go wrong, the only solution is to simplify. The “issues” which seemed complicated before don’t become less complicated, you just don’t have any choice but to navigate them. Thankfully, you have the best road map ever to help you navigate.

You’ll often hear parents say, “The positives outweigh the negatives,” in an attempt to capture this parental tightrope. I don’t know if it’s true. I’m pretty sure most parents parrot this idea because they think they’re supposed to, but I’m suspicious how many of them did the math. The only thing I’m convinced of is that you can’t have one without the other. The horrors are part of doing business. And if so, then so be it.

There’s a Stoic idea about perfection. It says, if you’re fortunate enough to experience perfection once, then that’s enough to last you forever. No one can ever take it away from you. It’s yours and always will be. I think about this every time I hug my son. Every time he says, “I love you daddy.” Every time he asks me to carry him down the stairs, or the three times he’s fallen asleep in my arms. That’s more perfection than is my due. And no one can ever take it away from me. And there isn’t a darkness dark enough, a terror terrible enough, or a horror horrible enough to extinguish that light.