Familyhood (7 page)

As I'm sure you know from your own numerous domestic demon-ridding experiences, this stuff cannot be disposed of just
anywhere
. There's a very specific procedure involved. Dr. and Mrs. Kooky told us we had to dump the evil ghost poop far from our house—“someplace out of the ordinary path” of our “travels.”

Okay. So we drove about twenty minutes and found a perfectly nice little residential area we'd never been to—and to which we would now certainly never be returning.

Furthermore, according to Dr. Screwy, the drop was to be made at a “point of great energy”—a busy intersection.

Okay. So we scoured the neighborhood for just the
right
intersection: wide lanes for lots of potential “great energy flow,” but with no one there at the moment. We didn't need witnesses.

When first presented, it seemed like getting rid of this demon dirt would be akin to flicking an ash out a window. Not even; more like blowing out a candle. A little harmless smoke dissipating into thin air. But as my wife sat there with a teeming trash bag on her lap the size of a mature panda, ready to heave it out the window, this “dust removal” seemed now to be an egregiously antisocial act of ecoterrorism. But this was for the health of our child. We
must
do it!

We pull into the intersection. All systems are “go.”

“Remember,” my wife says just before our synchronized moment of attack, “we're not allowed to look back.”

“Huh?”

“Don't you remember?” she says. “He told us we may likely hear a voice beckoning us. A wind . . . Something that sounds like someone calling our name.”

(Seriously—not making this up, folks.)

“When did he say
that
?”

“When he told us to do all this other crap! He said whatever you do, don't turn around.”

“Why?”

“Because! If we—ooh—the light's green! Go, go, go!”

Okay. I step on the gas, we soar into the intersection, and my wife the “accomplice” heaves the few specks of ghost crap—and the acre of paper towels encasing them—out the window, and as we shout our apologies to the nice people whose neighborhood we just violated and sullied, we race the heck out of Dodge.

A FEW WEEKS LATER,
Dr. and Mrs. Whacky came for a follow-up visit. Our house, they reported, was still glowingly demon-free, and our son was looking rosy and blossoming nicely.

The doctor did, however, notice some “blocked energy” in our boy's midsection. “Nothing to worry about,” he assured us. (Actually, his
wife
assured us, but I was pretty confident she got it from him.)

He instructed us to massage our son's right foot, “
exactly
in this spot over
here
.” Not yet well versed in the ways of Eastern medicine, I was confused as to why, if his belly was the problem area, we were rubbing his foot. Why not rub his belly?

They explained to us the concept of
chi
and
meridians
. How energy flows through the body in lines, connecting internal organs to other points, so
this
point on the foot might connect to the liver, whereas a half inch over on the foot could correspond to the gall bladder. The idea that pain manifesting in one place could actually be a sign of trouble in
another
place was new to me, but graspable. And compared to throwing ghost powder out a car window, this was a piece of cake.

I did as the doctor prescribed and massaged my son's little foot consistently and diligently.

A week later, the doctor returns, examines our son, and is surprised to find the problem not yet cleared.

“You sure you're rubbing the foot right
here
?”

“Yes,” I assure him, a little annoyed that he would question the integrity of my work.

“Do it one more week,” he tells me. “Rub a little harder.”

Sure, why not. Still happy to do anything for my child, still happy to believe that magic is at play and miracles are around the corner.

I rub my son's foot for another week. Dr. Spooky comes to the house again, and is again disappointed to find that massaging my son's foot has not unblocked the energy in his gall bladder or his kidney or his
soul
or whatever the heck it was connected to.

He steps outside to smoke a cigarette. (The doctor, not my son. My son was about twelve months old.)

He comes back in and has a new plan of action. He instructs me to continue the massaging, but with one tiny adjustment: instead of rubbing that specific spot on my son's foot, rub that same spot on my
own
foot.

I ask his wife to repeat that, presuming I've misunderstood. The doctor smiles, anticipating my skepticism. I mean . . . I'm open to anything, and admittedly, it costs me nothing to rub my foot. But . . .
what
?! Rub
my
foot to heal
his
stomach?! Now you're talking crazy-talk.

The doctor chuckles along with me politely, acknowledging that by almost any standard, this is a big leap. But he holds his gaze on me an extra moment, letting me know that, crazy as it may seem, this is indeed what he is suggesting.

My brain reels, and my knees buckle. I sit down and try to get my mind around even the bare bones of the thinking here.

“Are you telling me . . .” I can barely form the sentence. “Are you saying there's . . . like, a
connection
, between my son and me, that I can soothe his pain by doing something to
myself
?”

This was crazy, but potentially kind of
good
crazy, because if, in fact, that were true, sign me up. I'll do that all day long. Take some treatment myself which will heal my child? Yes, please.

The more I let that idea ricochet around my mind, the more excited I became. Not just for the practical applications—the idea that I might be able to help my son—but even just conceptually; that he and I could be so magically and tangibly connected was a thrill to contemplate.

Just to be sure I was getting it, I repeated it back to the doctor.

“So . . . you're saying . . . I can feel his pain in
my
body?”

The doctor gave me a funny look, a tentative nod that suggested I hadn't quite gotten it.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

The doctor then took his hands and slowly crossed them over each other. “The other way around.”

Fortunately, I was already seated, because this literally knocked me back. I felt the wind get pushed out of me as I collapsed back in my chair.

“
What?!
What are you saying now?” I so wanted to be done with this. My brain and my heart were exhausted.

Dr. Nutjob gently explained the possibility—it wasn't a certainty, he was just raising the
possibility
—that maybe
I
was the one in need of some healing and it was my son who was registering
my
pain in
his
body.

As opposed to every other whacky possibility raised so far, this one I had to reject. Because this one did
not
make me feel better; this one pained me. The notion that this infant—already bearing more than his share of challenges and hardships—would also be taking on
my
problems? That couldn't be right. The universe wouldn't do that. And curses upon anyone who would even suggest that.

WE STOPPED SEEING
Dr. Hocus and Mrs. Pocus after that. To this day, I have no idea how much—if any—of what they brought to us was helpful or true.

I do know that my curiosity did get the better of me, and after they left that night, I started massaging my foot as the doctor had suggested. And I know that within two days, whatever was bothering my son's stomach went away. The “blockage” seemed to have unblocked. He smiled more and slept better.

Coincidence? Maybe. Cause and effect? Could be. I have no way of knowing. I'm just telling you what happened.

And something in me felt different too, after that. I felt
lighter
. I don't know what it was, or if there was even a grain of medical explanation for it. I just know that I was cured of
something
. Maybe it was the evaporation of skepticism. Or the blossoming of some new strand of hope.

WHATEVER IT WAS,
I've never let go of the idea that my son and I are connected in ways that defy conventional logic. And that after all is said and done, it's quite possible it is, in fact,
he
who has been helping
us
all along, and not the other way around.

I don't necessarily believe everything anyone tells me anymore.

But when it comes to this boy, I do believe in everything.

It's Not Just You

T
he President
of the United States' oldest daughter went away to camp last summer. I know this because he shared it with me. Well, not with
me
personally. He told the whole world, but I was listening. He also mentioned that one of his daughters got a 73 on a science test and the other started wearing braces.

I was genuinely happy to learn each and every one of these nuggets. For a couple of reasons. First of all, I found it comforting and
inspiring
that the leader of the free world manages to make time for the minutiae of his children's day-to-day lives. We don't elect robots; we elect real people with, hopefully, a sense of
all
realities facing other real people. And I have to say: a man dealing with his kid's braces or improving his kid's science grade sounds pretty grounded to me. Not the type of person likely to go off half-cocked with the levers of power in hand.

Hearing the President share details about his kids made me feel connected to him—father to father. When he confessed that he was oddly happy about the braces because his daughter was, to his mind, starting to look “too grown-up,” I got it. I know the feeling. “She's still my baby,” he told the world, even though the girl is five-foot-nine and well on her way to being a fine young woman. I can sympathize; my oldest son, who I used to carry around like a football, is no longer so portable, shaves now, and has taken what I can only describe as a very healthy interest in girls. I could have waited a while for this to be the case, but I get no say in the matter. And neither, I see, does the President of the United States.

On the other hand, I'm sure the President's young kids weren't thrilled to have their personal life served up on the 6:00 news. My kids get embarrassed when I shout, “Have a good day” in front of their friends. I can only imagine it would be worse blurting it out on CNN.

But what I also found so gratifying about these presidential tidbits was seeing that even Mr. and Mrs. President find it hard to
not
talk about the kids.

My wife and I try—but have yet to pull it off. We've had evenings out, deliberately orchestrated “grown-up dates,” where the only agreed-upon, enforceable rule was: “We cannot talk about the kids.” Five minutes is our current record. And to be fair, that was my fault. I was so pleased with our achievement, I blurted out, “Look how we've gone five minutes without talking about the kids.” Apparently that still counts.

So it gives me no small pleasure to imagine the President in the same boat. I envision the rare occasion when the first couple manage to squeak out some time together, the discussion might begin like any other married couple's, with some detail from the busy workday, the President perhaps kicking things off with something like “Boy, you know who's funny? Putin! What a crack-up!” Or maybe an intimate appeal for counsel. Like “Honey, any idea where I put the stimulus package? Is it possibly in your car?” You know, everyday stuff.

But in no time at all, I guarantee you they've moved on to the kids. It's biologically impossible
not
to. Upon becoming a parent, the part of your brain that deals with speech gets irrevocably wired into the part of your brain that only cares about your kids. (I read that cavemen had the ability to reproduce before they had the ability to talk. Which (a) helps explain why foreplay wasn't invented for thousands of years, and (b) underscores how deeply this need to talk about our kids is ingrained. Till they reproduced and had kids, cavemen and cavewomen had nothing to talk about. Post-kids, I bet you they talked about nothing else.)

That's the way it is in our house. In fact, the only respite we have from talking about our kids is talking about
other
people's kids.

We talk about other people's kids a lot. We observe, we comment, we compare. And, I'm ashamed to say, we're not always kind.

“Did you see those pants on that kid? Who's dressing him—the circus?”

“Look at how that kid climbs all over the furniture. Where'd he grow up—the circus?”

“And how about that kid's table manners? Where'd he learn to eat—the circus?”

(None of this, by the way, is meant as a slight to circus people—who do a bang-up job keeping their children safe around so many wild animals and clowns—but as a confession that I sometimes make myself feel better by putting down other people's kids. Okay? Now you know.)

It's nothing to be proud of, I admit; pushing myself up by pulling down others. The Germans call it
Schadenfreude
—“the deriving of pleasure from the misfortunes of others.” (How about that, by the way? There were
that
many people being
that
petty that they had to make up a special word for it.)

As near as I can tell, all parents engage in some degree of this type of “Child-freude,” which is
like
Schadenfreude, just more finely tuned. I made it up, but it means: “Comfort derived specifically from pointing out, discussing, and maliciously ridiculing the flawed child-rearing practices and clothing choices of other parents.” We all do it, I'm sure of it. (If not, if we're truly the only couple that does it, then boy is my face red. But I doubt we are.)

We all need to hear about other people's struggles with
their
kids. It's why I was so delighted about the President's daughter getting a 73; it made me feel better about my kid's 74. We just want to know we're not the only ones fighting the fight. That we're not alone. Of all the roles the first family serves, the role of head-scratching parents with real-life, perfectly imperfect kids is perhaps among the most unappreciated.

For the longest time, based on no evidence other than our own insecurity and sense of incompetence, my wife and I were convinced that we were the flat-out, no-question-about-it, least-skilled parents in the country. Furthermore, never ones to give ourselves a break, we believed that all the other parents in our sphere were doing a conspicuously stellar job with
their
kids.

We were convinced that every other set of parents we knew were perfect. They were more thorough in going over their kids' homework, they set better boundaries than we did, didn't let their kids watch as many hours of TV as we did, raised kids who were unfailingly polite in public and had a far greater sense of community and public service than our underachieving offspring over there on the couch watching
SpongeBob
. We were certain everybody else's kids willingly and joyfully ate nothing but healthy foods, shunning all candy and candy-based products, they all sensibly and automatically put on weather-appropriate clothing, and voluntarily called their grandparents with clockwork regularity, giving fully detailed accounts of their numerous accomplishments, ending with testimonials to their wonderful and perfect parents, who were no doubt raised by these spectacular grandparents.

Turns out: not so much. At all.

The good news/bad news is:
nobody
knows what they're doing. It's a frightening discovery, considering how many people we're talking about. But I find it tremendously liberating. It's the one gargantuan truth that all parents ultimately learn, and of which they can never let go. That other parents out there are struggling too—and maybe even doing worse than us—is what allows us to get up every morning.

MY VERY GOOD BUDDY
and I have a friendship built almost entirely on confessing our failures as fathers. To be fair, it's more like expressing our fears that we
might
be failures. But no matter. The airing of these mutual insecurities (and occasional tiny victories) has been the cornerstone of a life-changing and life-affirming friendship. An oasis of support in a Sahara of self-recrimination. Apparently, we both needed to hear about someone else's problems. To compare ourselves to an
other
. We just never knew it.

Our wives knew it. They're much smarter in this regard. In fact, this good buddy and I only became friends because our wives conned us into it. Which is not uncommon, I've discovered.

For the majority of men my age, our friends are guys we never actually picked. They're the husbands of our wives' friends, or fathers of our kids' friends. (I do have a few close friends from childhood, but they're scattered about the country and I rarely get to see them.) But the guys I have spent the most time with for the last several years have been the guys whose lives, like mine, revolve around their kids. So, from school drop-offs to pickups to school plays and birthday parties, Little League, rock-band practice, school fund-raisers, etc. . . . these are the guys I'm with.

Invariably, the first bond between us was the shared resentment we all felt for being at these stupid events in the first place. And out of that mutual discomfort, friendships were forged. Good friendships. Solid friendships. Dependable brothers in arms. None of which changes the fact that I never picked these guys. Nor they me. We just got handed to one another, and were clever enough to make the best of it.

So within this group of arbitrary misfits was this one particular fellow who, as I say, became my friend only because our wives ordained it so. It was actually a deliberate “setup,” because they could have easily continued their friendship without involving us. But they both had the idea, and the strong conviction, that he and I would “hit it off” and somehow “be good for each other,” and so proceeded to match us up.

Privately, in our respective households, my wife and his wife were deftly selling us on each other. “You'll really like him—he's really funny!” “No, he's not like you think he is. He's actually a great guy, you guys are really alike.” “You guys'll be great friends!”

And, in response, safe within the warmth of these very same respective households, the other guy and I were each saying, “What do I need another friend for? I already have friends I never talk to.
More
would just be overkill.”

But the loving wives persisted. They were determined to make this happen.

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER WAS EASY
—the families got together for a bit of BBQ and kid-friendly football-watching. Probably could've enjoyed myself even if the guy was a deadbeat. But he wasn't. He was a perfectly nice, bright, funny guy.

A few weeks later, the wives organized a dinner, this time just the four of us—no kids. Again, I couldn't have had a better time. By the time we ordered, the group had already subdivided; my new best friend and I were huddled in animated conversation, as were the wives in their own corner. Their devious plan had worked; this guy and I each had a new friend.

Shortly thereafter, to the relief of our wives, my new best bud and I realized we didn't need to go out and eat an entire dinner just to talk. Or even need to involve our wives. We could actually get together without them, which it turns out was everybody's preference.

We had discovered early on that among the many things we had in common was an appreciation of the occasional cigar and a bit of Scotch. Very
manly
things—which took the sting out of the unspoken self-consciousness we were both feeling about doing something as
un
-manly as, apparently,
courting
.

So we initiated a weekly get-together—always on the same night of the week, always at the same time—for our Scotch, cigar, and chat. And as enjoyable as each of those elements was, it was the
routine
of doing it that became the centerpiece. We each found we looked forward to the consistency of these sit-downs.

And what flowed out of them was a steady stream of revelations. “Wow, my kid is going through the same problem with
his
teacher.” “Yeah, we tried the same meds for our kid, but got off it too.” “Yeah, my kids hate when I do that too.” And on and on. A veritable marathon of acknowledged shortcomings, from which the net
take-away
, for both of us, was a huge sense of “Wow, I thought it was just
me
!” Followed by a giddy sense of excitement in the relief and fun of that very discovery.

Why men are so late to the party in learning to do this is for people smarter than myself to figure out. But I do know there is a consistent gender divide here. Women know how to have friends, whereas men, I think, don't. When my wife gets together with her friends, they will succinctly download the details of every facet of each other's life. If I go to a ball game with a buddy, nothing makes us both happier than the sheer joy of getting to sit there and
not talk
for fifteen consecutive minutes.

I remember my father being the same way. A remarkably amiable fellow, with plenty of friends (actually they were mainly the husbands of my mother's friends), but I don't think he ever once picked up the phone and called a friend because he wanted to
talk
.

I'm not saying this is the best way to live; I just had not till recently noticed the discrepancy. My wife
needs
her friends. She
cherishes
her friends. I
have
friends, but have pretty much always felt I'd be fine without them too. Sort of the way I feel about
juice
; nice to have, but if we're out, I'll have something else.

Until I had kids. Then I
needed
friends. And, probably for the first time, was able to really
be
a friend. It's another reason having kids is such a game-changer: it opens you in ways that just would not have happened otherwise. It connects you to all those
others
. Whether in friendship or mocking ridicule—either way, you need to acknowledge and take in
others
.

AND THIS IS THE CORNERSTONE
of my plan for World Peace. Granted, I haven't worked out
all
the details, but I figure if presidents and prime ministers all over the world would just open every conversation with something about their kids, it may not bring about global harmony overnight, but it's not going to start any wars either. It can only be a step in the right direction. Talking about kids does that; it brings out the common ground between
everybody
.