Dad Material

When I first saw Kevin, with his long straight hair, his ripped jeans and his tan poncho, I did not think there goes “dad material.”  Nor did I when I first heard him speak in class, brilliant and confident with a memory so keen, he never had to take notes and a tongue so sharp it cut holes in even the strongest of arguments. 

I just wanted to get me some of that. 

I can remember sitting with another student, telling her, I was pretty sure he liked me.  That I would make him mine.  She looked at me like I was nuts.  (Of course, she thought he liked her.  She thought everyone liked her.)

But what she didn’t know was that we had already started a relationship on the sly, talking on the phone each night, until I could no longer hold my eyes open.  Sometimes I even fell asleep, with the phone still in my hand.  And though he told me that he couldn’t picture himself ever getting married.

I knew better. 

It was Kevin who wanted me to move closer to him, not with him, but closer to where he lived and we both went to school.  So I did.  A few years later, he warmed to the idea of us moving in together.  We rented the second floor of a sky-blue Victorian with windows like portholes and a glorious back porch perched in the trees.  We called it the boathouse in the sky.  Four years in, I pressed my grandmother’s ring into his palm and told him he could give it to me any time he felt ready.

Subtle, I know.   But by that time, he had changed his thinking.  We could picture it, spending our lives together.  Oh, there were details to work through—where we would live (his state or mine), when we would have kids (before or at 40)—stuff like that.  But we agreed about the fundamental things, and there was still no one I would rather talk to for hours and hours.  He was my closest, dearest friend. 

I had small reservations.  When he refused to share my love of reading children’s books or singing camp songs at the top of our lungs, I was mildly concerned that he didn’t feel the way I did about children.  I was afraid he lived too much in his mind.   That, perhaps, childish things were too childish for him. 

We got married on a hilltop, surrounded by circles of people we loved.  An impending storm threatened the ceremony.   No rain, but lightening and thunder.  Someone joked that the Gods had stood up and taken notice.  I cried through my vows.  In pictures, I look like I am in pain.  We sealed the ceremony with a kiss under umbrellas and then rushed down the hill to the refuge of a billowy white tent. 

Flash forward three years later when, to my great joy, I am with child.  Kevin was interested and attentive throughout my pregnancy, but stopped short of reading to my belly, or pressing his lips to my swollen body whispering sweet somethings to the infant within.  Things I wanted did not resonate for him.  I wondered what kind of a father he would be. 

Now I know.  Kevin is the kind of father who allows his daughter to dress him like a baby and feed him with a bottle, plays endless hours of Wesley to her Princess Buttercup, and can patiently retell her the entire Star Wars Trilogy on a 16 hour trip out to Illinois.  He is the kind of father who has read every single children’s book on her shelf to her, too many times to count.  He is the kind of father who gently talks about with her about how she is feeling, and soothes her hurts and celebrates her accomplishments. 

I love watching Kevin with Sophia.  I am moved by their pure enjoyment of each other.  How she rushes into his arms, exclaiming, “DADDY!” when he comes home, her face lit up with love.  How they wrestle like puppies on the kitchen floor right in front of the refrigerator while I’m trying to make dinner, giggling like maniacs.  How she strokes his beard and sucks her thumb when she’s tired or sad and they both wear they same dreamy, far-away look. 

There was so much to love in Kevin, before Sophia.  But since she has come along, I have seen a side of him I didn’t know was there.  There is certainly a degree of stress that accompanies bringing a child into a marriage.  I’ve watched it strain and erode relationships.  We are not immune to the demands of parenting and it’s impact on our couplehood.  But the struggles do not outweigh the immeasurable delights.  Seeing Kevin as a father has only served to deepen my love for him. 

Happy Father’s Day, Kevin. 

Ode to Dad

I could not do what my husband does.

Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.

She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.

Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.

And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.

But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.

And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.

Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.

After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”

She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”

“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)

“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.

“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.

She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.

It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.

He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.

“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.

“How was your day, Daddy?”

“Hard. How was yours?”

“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”

“Are you all healed?”

“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”

They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.

He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.

“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.

“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.

When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.

“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.

After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.

“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”

Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.

We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”

I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.