February 26, 2015

To be a dad once seemed impossible to me. No one here needs to know the history of my love life, but suffice it to say that in my world at least, the possibility of becoming a father was always tied to being in the kind of committed relationship that I knew would last, the kind I did not have for much of my twenties and thirties. I grew up in the midst of a marriage eventually sundered by divorce, and I knew that I simply could not put a child of mine through that. So I don't think anyone should be surprised by my religious conversion after Julie and I became a couple. To make a sacramental marriage bond with her was the natural culmination of a yearning for a stable home and family that had dominated much of my adult life.

To be a dad to my son, Walter, has meant walking down to the train tracks to see "Casey Jones," telling Egbert stories inspired by my mother, reading endlessly from Harry, The Dirty Dog to Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone. To be a dad to Walter has meant a blur of years in which I was a hands-on dad while Julie worked off shifts, so we might have the kind of primary relationship with our son borne of him being in our care 95% of the time. To be a dad to Walter has meant giving him baths in the kitchen sink of our first house in Plymouth, then swaddling him tight in a towel, taking him upstairs to diaper him, then putting him in his crib and singing him to sleep. And of course, to be a dad to Walter has meant following his progress through school, bonding with him over his obsession with The Titanic, his prodigious interest in theoretical physics, and his eventual turn toward political science. It has meant walking hand in hand to the train tracks, attending countless middle school band concerts, and seeing him off to school during his senior year with a kiss on the cheek, and "Love you, Dad."

To be a dad to my son, Jack, has meant camping at Interlochen, MINI road trips, and collecting him from Blue Lake Music Camp during the summer. To be a dad to Jack has meant the loneliest hour of my life as they prepped Julie for her C-section, then some serious fear as she struggled with a bout of postpartum depression afterward. To be a dad to Jack has meant the easy baby who they say follows a difficult birth, the great sleeper who always awoke with a smile. To be a dad to Jack has meant countless walks downtown to Starbucks during the summers, witnessing his turn toward the drum corps in high school, and his persistently insightful critical eye (and ear) as consumer of literature and the arts. It has meant taking a series of photos of him from behind while camping and labeling them The Back of Jack, too many mornings over coffee before taking him to band although I really wouldn't spend my mornings any other way, and a quiet murmur of "Love you" as he heads up to bed after finishing his homework and checking his Tumblr one last time.

To be a dad to my son, Charlie, has meant watching him head out shoeless most summer mornings, whole days at the park until the streetlights came on, and the only time a police officer appeared at my door asking after my son (who, by the way, was NOT GUILTY). To be a dad to Charlie has meant finally getting the hang of this childbirth thing between the two of us, just in time for the little cinder block Julie and I took home. To be a dad to Charlie has meant leaving Parent-Teacher Conferences for a terrified drive to Ann Arbor and a scary night at the hospital singing him to sleep lest he wake up and aspirate vomit after taking some grown- up meds. To be a dad to Charlie has meant being the father of the best loved child at his elementary school, if only for being the source of so many "Charlie stories," and watching as his teachers' predictions came true as Charlie became an excellent student in middle school, and living in the delicious, intimidating uncertainty of wondering where he will go from here. It has meant washing his feet black with dirt at night, listening to endless get-rich or get-big or just-get schemes over the years, in short, Living Large With Charles In Charge. Finally, he is just the latest child who can make me shake my head in sheer astonishment at my good fortune simply by saying, "Dad ...."

Indeed, to be Dad to these three since I've been cursed with Parkinson's has clearly had its share of blessings, from Walter's watchful eye when I'm in tricky situations to Jack's unyielding patience with my physical limitations to Charlie's innate gift for nursing. In fact, the only thing luckier than having each one of these boys in my life is meeting and falling in love with their mother. There's a reason for that "Luckiest Man in the USA" tag line I've adopted, and if it starts with Julie, it most certainly continued three times over in the boys whose coming into this world has conferred upon me the deep and abiding blessing to be a dad.