Familyhood (17 page)

Loyalty

I
'll tell you something
about my wife that only makes me admire and love her more: she can cut in line in front of people, and not only make it look like a good thing, she can make you feel bad for questioning it in the first place.

We were with the kids, in line for a museum. Freezing cold. Blustery winds. Lines around the block and then on to other blocks. The options were: (a) go home and try again some other time, or (b) go to the back of the line, which was so far away it was about the same size trip as going home.

We kind of slinked off, not having clearly decided either way, but when we got to the corner, my wife came up with a third option, called “Let's just get in line right
here
!”

A great idea—if you discounted the fact that this would be “cutting,” thereby sticking it to the three thousand people already waiting in line behind you, who only
seemed
to not be there because the line picked up over there, across the street. So if you closed your eyes and tuned out the vitriolic taunts of the three thousand people who wanted to beat you to death, and shut off entirely your moral compass and sense of decency, then yeah, you could, conceivably, convince yourself that you had arrived at the legitimate end of the line.

Now, don't get me wrong; my moral compass is nothing if not flexible. And I certainly didn't want to stand out in arctic winds any longer than necessary. But I knew this was just
wrong
. (Also, the stares and threats and the colossal wave of ill will washing over us from all sides were impossible to ignore.)

I leaned in to confer with my wife.

“Honey, we can't cut in line.”

She looked at me so oddly I thought maybe I had missed something obvious, like “Don't you remember the proclamation the mayor made yesterday granting us the right to do exactly this if we needed to?”

I started again to—gently and confidentially—voice my protest.

“Sweetie, I don't think we can—”

But again I got that look—this time a bit more intensely—that wordless glare that indignantly argued “What are you talking about? I'm not
cutting in line
.”

Now, understand: This was coming from a sane person. An extremely intelligent woman, and—I feel compelled to reiterate here—a
good
person. Maybe the best I've ever known; an extraordinarily empathetic, caring woman. This is a woman who has reached out to some of the absolutely most hateful people you'd ever want to meet—people I had lobbied strenuously to jettison from our lives—and she has cared for them, brought them into our house, clothed and fed them, and never asked for so much as a thank-you. This is a woman who hates bullies, snobs, and liars, who detests pretense or anyone taking advantage of anyone else; the last person on earth who you could ever see cutting in line. And she wouldn't.

Except for the fact that she just
did
.

But in her mind, at that moment, she was convinced she had done nothing wrong. I couldn't tell you the particular path of logic she followed to get there, or the exact formula of denial she used to leap the many readily apparent hurdles of reality. I just knew that somewhere in the previous few moments, something had changed in her and she had gone “there.” That place she goes sometimes from which I can't get her back until she decides on her own to return.

I know this is a place she goes only when it concerns her children. In this particular case, she was just doing what she felt she had to do to get her children out of the freezing cold—even if it meant partaking in an act that she herself, at any other time, would vociferously oppose.

I felt the need to illuminate.

“But, sweetie,” I said, as tenderly as I could. “We actually
are
cutting in line.” I smiled, trying to appeal to her higher angels, which I knew lived somewhere inside her, but were apparently staying in to avoid the cold.

The smile didn't work. She clenched her jaw slightly and looked straight through the very center of my eyes—another of her deep supply of silent signals, this one imploring me unequivocally to “just drop it.” Fair enough. As she scooted our kids into the line, I fell in behind them, now a knowing and guilt-ridden accomplice.

Shortly later, as we all shuffled forward a few inches, I could feel on my neck the white-hot hatred of those behind us. Once or twice I turned around and shrugged apologetically, as if to say, “What are you going to do?”—hoping for some kindred spirit to assuage my guilt. Perhaps some other husband who, like me, knows what it's like to be caught in the crosscurrents of that which is right and that which your spouse has already committed you to and which you are powerless to abandon.

When I got no sympathy from anyone—and why should I have, really?—I was surprised to feel a shift inside me. The sense of embarrassment and self-conscious guilt gave way to something else: a defiant sense of allegiance. While yes, my wife may have fired that first shot and started this whole thing, I now felt honor-bound to stand and fight beside her and continue the battle she'd chosen, while our children huddled against our legs for warmth. (All so we could get into this museum, which, by the way, the kids would have been thrilled to skip entirely.)

But being a family involves being
loyal
to the family. And part of that loyalty—who are we kidding—
absolutely all
of that loyalty is about going along with family at the very times you'd like to cover your head and deny even knowing these people.

It's easy to go along with your wife and kids when they're being nice and sweet and reflecting well upon your family name. That's not loyalty; that's taking a free ride on the love train. That's basking in the warmth of their pleasing, pleasant ways. When my little guy plays drums in the school play and I tap every parent in the auditorium on the shoulder to say, “That's my boy!”—that's not loyalty. That's just me unable to control my bursting heart. When my big guy works on a presentation for class and then nails it perfectly in front of the whole school, and I see him beam with pride and self-confidence as he accepts the heartfelt applause of his peers, that's not loyalty that makes my face hurt from smiling so hard and trying not to cry at the same time. That's just a parental cookie. That's a treat you get once in a while—a reward for hanging in there.

Loyalty is when it's
not
so easy. When your kid is being whiny and rude, or trying out poop jokes on his grandmother and her friends, or entering a room full of company naked and holding a
Star Wars
Light Saber in a very special way—try applauding
then
. Stand up with pride then and tell everyone, “I'm with
him
!”
That's
loyalty.

You don't do it because you approve of the behavior. You do it because you're family. And loyalty is a small price to pay for all the good things they do, all the proud moments they give. And all the loyalty they send your way when you embarrass them by wearing that hat they begged you not to, or tell a story for the thousandth time and they listen anyway. Loyalty is what you do.

And my wife is nothing if not a
doer
. This is a get-it-done gal. And if her children are involved, it will most assuredly get done, and my heart goes out to anyone who—intentionally or not—gets in her way.

We were traveling a few years ago and checked in to our hotel later than we'd expected. By the time we got up to our rooms, the kids, much younger at the time, were hungry and tired. My wife called for room service.

“Sorry,” they said. “We're closed.”

My wife, very sweetly, convinced them that they were in fact
not
closed, because our boys were hungry. After a few volleys of parries and thrusts and artfully veiled threats, the poor guy relented.

“Fine. What would you like?”

This was when the boys ate only, maybe, two things, one of which was pasta.

“Sorry,” said the still-not-getting-it room service fellow. “We don't
have
pasta.”

Again, even more sweetly, my wife convinced him that a tip-top kitchen like theirs must surely have some pasta somewhere, even if it's not, as he reported, on the menu at this hour. “In fact,” she offered, “if you want, I can come down and help you look, if that'd be easier for you.”

Needless to say, she didn't have to go anywhere. Within minutes, the nice fellow was at our door with two steaming bowls of pasta for our very appreciative children. My wife gave him a gracious and heartfelt thank-you and he left looking not that much worse for the ordeal. In fact, he seemed rather pleased with himself. It was a win-win situation.

This ferocious lioness instinct may have always been part of my wife's personality, I'm not sure. I do know it was already intact and fully operational from the instant she first became a mother.

When our older son was born, he was kept in the hospital for several months, fighting his way forward day by day. But he didn't do it alone. My wife was there at his side, vigilant, proactive, and tireless. I was there too—when I wasn't “busy” at work—a regretful ordering of priorities that, while justifiable, embarrasses me to this day.

My wife, though, never left that hospital room. She had her eyes on everyone who came to his bed, and her eyes out for the others who
should
have come but were momentarily elsewhere. She spent every waking moment making sure our son had the best care, the best treatment, and the best chance. She never left; her lion cub was sick. Nothing would take her away from fighting for him. Her loyalty was so strong, so fierce, it humbled me, almost frightened me. But it saved our son and made us a family.

So, if someday, while taking that very family to the museum or the zoo or a concert that's absurdly overcrowded, the mother of my children feels compelled to cut in line because she believes it's what her children need, am I going to complain? Yes—but quietly. And to myself.

And to all the people behind us in line—that day, and any day it may happen in the future—I sincerely apologize. It was wrong of us. It's just that . . . It's very . . . See, we're not really . . . She just . . .

You
talk to her.

Currency

O
nce in a while
I get it just right.

We're in the ocean, my younger son and I, and he's playing in the waves, being brave, or pretending to be brave. (Not that there's a difference; brave is brave, as far as I'm concerned.)

My little brown-haired seal of a son is having the time of his life, up to his chest in cool ocean water, jumping up to meet each new wave with palpable anticipation and joy. Except every once in a while there's a wave a bit larger than he'd like. I see him hesitate and steady himself for the inevitable, because in the ocean, there's no negotiating; that wave is coming whether you like it or not.

I stand nearby; close enough to grab him should he need grabbing, far enough away (and behind him) so he doesn't feel I'm cramping his style. As I watch him gauge each incoming wave with keenly focused consideration, I'm impressed—not to mention
relieved;
this is a kid who bounds through life with such seeming fearlessness, I am thrilled to see him, in fact, register fear when a small dose of fear is exactly what's called for.

Every third or fourth wave, I notice him turn ever so slightly to make sure I'm there. I am indeed. Happy to be there. No—much more than happy.
Ecstatic
to be there, enjoying such splendor with my son. Happy to see my child literally find his place in the universe. Watching him inch deeper and deeper into the world with all that I would hope he would bring: determination, exuberance, some caution, and the capacity to adjust as needed. My heart pulses with sheer, unending love.

I SOMETIMES WONDER
if a child can ever be
too
loved. Probably not.

I know my children know they're loved. I'm not shy about telling them so in unedited, unrestrained, unconditional declarations. In fact, I once said—to this very same son—“Hey, did I ever tell you I love you?” (This was meant to be humorously rhetorical, since we both knew quite well I say it all the time.) His response? A slight rolling of the eyes and a perfectly annoyed “Yes, you
did
. Too much, frankly.”

Boy, that made me laugh. I was very gratified that he had such an abundance of love in his life that he could comfortably afford to shoo away any intrusive excess. (I also, frankly, loved his use of the word “frankly.” Not necessarily common sentence structure for a little kid.)

But his point was well taken; too many “I love you's” can be too much. (Still better than too
few
, but a good point nonetheless.) The problem with saying it too often is it starts to lose its impact. It becomes devalued. Like the Italian lira; when eight thousand of them only amount to one can of orange soda, each one seems to not be worth that much. Too many unfiltered expressions of adoration and it all becomes meaningless white noise.

So I've learned to contain myself. To hold back the number of “I love you's” I let fly in my kids' direction. Just like the Federal Reserve, sometimes you have to rein in and limit the supply of currency so as to retain its worth.

Looking at it for a moment from the other side of the coin, I know confidently that my children love
me
, but I wouldn't necessarily want to be peppered with verbal reminders from them either. Sure it's sweet, and a well-timed affirmation like that can sustain an emotionally deprived parent for months.

But to be honest, when my kids do, on the rare occasion, let forth an “I love you, Daddy,” I'm suspicious. I figure they either want something, broke something, or are saying it because it's easier than saying what's really on their mind—like “There's something hanging out of your nose,” or “I can't believe you just called that guy Ed; his name is
Justin
. You're just wrong so often.”

And even if none of the above were the case—even if they said “I love you” sincerely, unsolicited, and free of any ulterior motive—well . . . it could still be too much because I don't always know what to do with that much tenderness at one time. It can be hard to hold.

Fortunately, children have other currencies of affection besides straightforward verbal declaratives. When they come over and show you what they've made, when they repeat something they've heard that tickled them, when they reference something you said to them months earlier, when they call you something silly or when they grab your head and twist and poke a finger into your face and make horrendously rude noises—those are all universally accepted and highly valued currencies of love. I've come to realize that none of these are any less negotiable a currency than “I love you,” and in many ways they're better, because they're less predictable, less pedestrian, less “on the money.” Just as with gift giving, sometimes “cash” is just tacky; better to go the unexpected route.

SO ON THIS BRILLIANT DAY
at the beach, I marveled at the sight of my son frolicking in the water, and rather than try to impress upon him how great it was to watch him, or how unbelievably, deeply, irrevocably, and incessantly loved he is, or even to remind him that I was there if he needed help, I contained myself. I don't do containment well. Or easily. But this time, I did. I said nothing—just enjoyed the moment and gave him his space.

And then a funny thing happened. A really big wave was heading in, and my fearless son—very subtly and without a sound—reached back for me. With no ceremony or self-consciousness, he took my arm, and then the other, and wrapped them around his waist like a seat belt. He placed his hands on my forearms and pushed down a little—testing the strength of his emergency landing system. He leaned back into me for security, and the wave came. It broke over us, tossing us both up and off balance—and then lowered us back to standing. No harm done. He laughed, and then—again, with no fanfare and no words exchanged—my brave son let go of my arms, fixed his eyes on the next wave, and stood to meet it. On his own.

That event—a span of maybe ten seconds—remains among the most fulfilling experiences of my life. My son needed me, and knew without looking that I'd be there for him.

For my part, I was thrilled to have come through. I was able to provide exactly what he needed; to be his safe harbor, the lifeboat, silently there if called upon.

If he gets to pretend he's always brave, then I get to pretend too. I get to pretend that this is how it will always be; that I'll be there for him forever, in and out of the ocean, ready to let him wrap himself up in me until the wave passes.

And all of this happened without a word exchanged. I didn't have to say anything or do anything. I had only to be there.

Like I say: once in a while I get it just right.