Rob Azavedo shares his feelings on being a father before and after his child’s birth.
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The article is dated: September 27, 2001. That was two and a half months before I was to become a father for the first time. The newspaper clipping had been sitting in the bottom of an old wine box in my basement for roughly 13 years, by now turning soggy and yellow and smelling like mouse shit.
Still, with “Father’s Day” being this weekend, I decided there was no better time to relive the words I wrote for the Boston Globe and see if they came to fruition or had waned or multiplied over time.
The essay began with this:
Two weeks ago, while I was counting steel beams at work, I was hit with a premonition. I’m going to be a lousy father.
Ah, I remember those beams and swirling dust in that steel yard in Bow, NH, which was a drop spot for rigs running struts from Quebec to Quincy during the “Big Dig” days. My job, simply, was to count beams, measure them, cut, stack and log them. I had a small crew of union operators and laborers. They hated my face.
I also remember being white with fear all the time, knowing I was going to be a father, a bad one at that. A father! I wasn’t financially or emotionally ready to be a father. I was barely holding my own as a 30-year old husband. I hadn’t even gone to CVS and developed pictures from my bachelor party in Key West yet. Would have cost too much. I was broke.
Plus, I recognized my selfish way. Moody, horny and hung over much of the time, I found that being married without children was no different than dating. Friday night wine bashes, Saturday night mind explosions, Sunday morning sleep in’s, acting rank and wild and utterly careless. A dream state for a lifetime day dreamer.
Moving on:
I worry these traits, although not uncommon, will dampen my child’s chances of complete happiness, to know how much he or she means to me.
First thing I see are the words “means to me.” Such a pedestrian phrase, so loveless and impersonal. Almost as bad a “journey.” “Good luck on your journey.” Want to eat my face whenever I hear that term.
Then again, I know now why I wrote “means” instead of “love.” How could I admit love for this writhing, membrane covered infant when I never felt “real love” before in my life. Not for a dog or a cousin or even a family member. I’ve loved two women in my life. Neither compares. Equally beautiful (at times) but separate, more powerful in its means of annihilation, this “real love” thing.
I genuinely like children. They make me laugh. They smell good. They’re just plain sweet and goofy and fun to be around.
Oh boy. That sweet smell turned out to be wet polyethylene and sour breast milk. Nothing goofy about that. And the fun part was over two hours into the gig. With my wife’s mind swimming in epidural haze, I was left alone with this prune wrapped in white. The thing was all mine! Not just something I could drop in the “Return” box at Blockbusters. Not something I could tell “call ya later” and never do. This was the real deal, and it was absolutely no fun.
I fast forward to when he or she starts middle school…nervous…flooded with insecurities. I see my child coming home from school, crying into a pillow, wanting it all just to be over.
My accuracy was immaculate, destined to materialize. Problem was, I was describing my past life when I wrote those words, not my child’s. They barely had a life. I soon discovered that my past life has nothing to do with their future life. I held the force to shape this child’s future, make it as different as my past as I wanted. Just because I was a pensive geek back in the day, constantly at war with myself didn’t mean my children were destined for that same level of paranoia.
How will I honestly respond to my child’s dilemma without sounding like every other person who told me in my youth, in a rush, padded manner, that “This is all just part of growing up. You’ll be fine.”
Laced with cuss words of love or not, I decided years back that the only way to deal with these episodes of confusion within a child was to go for the throat. Give it to them straight, but give it to them gradually. Like entering a scorching hot bath, disrobe their anxiety slowly before peeling back the skin on their social angst. Don’t ignore it, expose it. The world is going to eventually swallow them up or welcome them in. No need to rush it. But prepare them for it.
For some reason I can’t get past the responsibility it will entail, the pending minutia of day to day living. My breathe curls when I see a minivan. I hate the color yellow.
These hours are what kill a marriage, then eventually the spirit and tranquility of a household. In the article, I go onto describe my storybook notion of love and happiness. It’s all bullshit. There is no playbook for raising kids, for keeping a marriage afloat. So, my coda has been to live my life to the fullest, allowing my wife to live hers while stabilizing our life together as a family unit without resentment and regret. Seems to be working, for now at least.
I pray the child will rattle my essence and I’ll find the spirituality I need. The time is now. It has got to be.
And it has. Fatherhood has saved me from myself, like time has saved this newspaper clipping. I may be soggy and yellow and frayed at times as a father, but it’s not the spirit of the Lord or my past infractions that’s sustained me throughout fatherhood, it’s that undeniable “real love” I feel each day for these kids. There is no denying that.
Happy Father’s Day.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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