Cooked Goose

You know that horrific hypothetical scenario in which a person is caught in a tragic situation with only enough time and resources to save one of two drowning loved ones? You know that thing we’ve all thought about in our moment of morbid soul sifting? Well, put a child in that scenario on the dock, holding the floatation instrument, that child will not give it a moment’s thought before tossing that styrofoam donut toward … you guessed it, Mom. That’s right., Dad goes down. As well he should. A child loves his/her Mom. It’s just the way it is, man. It’s not personal. Not that they don’t love you; it’s just that they don’t love anything, anyone more than Mom.

A generalization. Yes. But also generally true. It stands to reason then that the first thing in fatherhood is loving the Mom. I think things are way more connected than we’d like to believe. As much as we’d like to fragment our lives and deal with them in pieces as they best suit us, life just doesn’t seem to work like that. Tell a child, “I really can’t stand your mom, but remember, I love you.” That child, if he/she could, would say, “That’s dumb dad.” They may not know exactly how, and they may not yet possess the ability to articulate the reasons why, but they know something’s wrong with that statement.

Some of us are thinking, “That’s a rough one.” The first thing is the thing that can’t be done. I get that. I don’t know your situation – in no position to pass judgement. And yet, I didn’t start writing to say “It’s all good.” You don’t need to look far to know, it’s not all good. And c’mon, you don’t want me to just tell you what you want to hear. Unless you want to hear the truth. Well, then I guess I am telling you what you want to hear. “Boy, didn’t we just tell you not to do that … well, alright then.”

Want to love your kids well? The first thing: Love their Mom. Do right by her.

Have you picked up in these posts that I’ve had some anger issues? I have, and continue to struggle with them. Without laying on a couch and crying, “My mommy didn’t love me,” I will say as far as I can tell, a good deal of the darkness came on me in early childhood. So, it’s been with me my whole life. For me, as I’d guess is the case with many, anger comes skipping hand in hand with its sister, depression. I don’t know what constitutes clinical. I do know that in those worst days, when the darkness swept over me, it was pitch black.

When the demons come out, your family gets a real close look. So for years, especially those first few years, my wife and kids took the brunt of my bouts with the darkness. I remember one day after one of those frequent bouts, I sat across from a colleague at dinner. We were on a business trip to San Diego. This colleague, he’s a bit more than a colleague. He is over a decade my senior with two grown children. For years he closely mentored me, and in the process we’d grown to become unique friends – our times together are infrequent, but seldom casual.

Over fried chicken and biscuits, he asked me how things were at home. I was as you might imagine feeling defeated and hopeless. I confided in him my struggle with anger and depression. And told him, I felt I’d done irreparable damage to my most treasured relationships. Without so much as a beat of hesitation, he said, “I’ve seen you with your wife, kids. You are a good man. You are a good father. Sure, you’ve made mistakes, but it is never too late. You can do it.” Yeah, bit of a mixture: some truth, a good deal of hope – his reckless hope. When I could not muster it, I needed somebody else to hope for me.

He was right. So, let me extend to you the hand that was extended to me. Whatever’s happened, whatever you’ve done or failed to do, it’s not too late. You can do it. For those who seek it, there’s always hope.

We did what responsible, expectant parents do. We signed up for Lamaze class. Nothing makes you feel more clueless than entering into the whole parenthood process. It’s all new, and it’s all so important. There’s this great scene in Raising Arizona in which … well, you can see it for yourself.

Do you see HI (Nicholas Cage’s character)? Do you see how dazed, out of sorts he looks? Do you see Ed’s (Holly Hunter) panic and guilt? Those are feelings with which you grow familiar in those early stages of parenthood. I walked into Lamaze class with some of those feelings, wearing an uncertain, docile grin. There was an assertive, heavy boned nurse lady or at least I assume she was a nurse, and there was no mistaking – she was running the show. Words like “uterus” and “vaginal” this or that were being thrown around, and we were on the floor, holding, rubbing … man, I was out of my element. Looking around at the other dads; none of us looked right.

My wife did not have your typical labor experience. They had to break her water, and hop her up on Pitocin before the real labor kicked in. When it did, I was ready. The weeks of Lamaze training summoned to the forefront of my mind. I stood in an athletic position, bedside. Made eye contact. Hee, Hee, Ho..Ho…Wheeeeeew. Hee, Hee, Ho..Ho…Wheeeeeeew. I “Ho, Ho’d” and “Hee, Hee’d” for hours. Eight hours into an unrelentingly steady contraction regiment and my wife was 1 cm dilated. “One centimeter! How can that be?”

Seeing us deflated, the nurse asked my wife if she’d be interested in some drugs. I jumped in and told her that we were not, and that we were really interested in trying to do this naturally. That’s when the nurse looked at me with a look that said, “Um, are you the one about to push an 8 lbs baby into the world from between your legs?” She composed herself, and appealed for me to defer to my wife. It was the most sensible appeal I’d ever heard. Then she proceeded to help us understand that my wife would not be choosing something “lesser” by getting some badly needed help.

Even Lamaze has an agenda. It’s not a bad agenda: “Natural is better.” Some truth there. And it can be helpful, so long as it’s left in its proper place. But like many other things, it can spawn a strange achievement, class struggle. The Natural and the Drugged. It can put unnecessary pressure on a mother doing something unbelievably heroic – drugs or no drugs. If I could, I would tell my younger self, “Don’t add to the pressure she may have already heaped on herself.” With our second and third, we were ready to order straight away.

“Yes, thanks. She’d like to start with some of those great narcotic stuff we had last time we were here. And then, of course, she’ll have the epidural. Can we have them come out together?”
“No, I don’t think she’s quite ready yet for the epidural.”
“Oh, okay, yeah, that’s fine. Then just bring out the other stuff, and we’ll go with the epidural later. Thanks.”

I’m no expert. In thinking of a topic about which I would enjoy writing, two criteria came to mind. One, it had to be significant; it had to matter to me. My wife and I have been married going on fifteen years. Nothing has occupied us more in these years than our three children, now ages 12, 11, and 7. They are our joy, our thoughts, our dreams. So, yeah, you better believe Fatherhood is important to me. Secondly, I wanted the topic to be useful, not just ramblings and rants. The world is littered with the ‘fall out’ of poor parenting – poor fathering, which is as you probably know easy to do. And yet amongst fathers, there doesn’t seem to me to be much talk on the subject. I feel like I have over the years received invaluable help, the kind of help without which I would have botched this thing beyond recognition. In sharing some of my experiences – the good, the bad, and the ugly – my hope is that some dad, somewhere will benefit. But an expert? No. Not me.

My take is not all fields lend themselves to the notion of expertise. Fatherhood and fantasy football are two of many that do not. One more thing: Often a novice on the ground is better than some expert in the sky.

On the latter point, your kids need a father. You’re the one with that name. Like it or not, to them, you’re the only expert who matter … and, a … you are that to your kids – you’re the expert.

I understand that we do things in doctor’s offices – things we would not do anywhere else. Like nuding up and putting on that ridiculous, powder blue, paper get-up with the ‘back door’ swung wide open. Like having a grown man handle your sac to check for an unwanted mass on your nut. And at forty-two, bending over for that grown man is right around the corner for me. So, I have that to look forward to. It’s a different place, where a lot of stuff that wouldn’t go, goes. And it’s a different relationship – that Dr/patient relationship.

I get it. But even by medical standards, pregnancy and birth are … how do I say? … intimate. It’s all out there, man. Inhibitions be damned; there are more pressing things afoot. After we got a Doctor’s confirmation that my wife was indeed pregnant, the first order of business was finding a OB/GYN. The nurse at the clinic recommended highly a Dr in the area. He was a dude. I still remember our first office visit in which the Dude proceeded to check my wife. It was strange. In the same breath, I felt like saying, “Is everything okay?” and “Hey, man! What the hell you doin’?” Both wanting to thank him, and choke him out.

At delivery, the Dude did not show up – which we’ve since learned is fairly common. A real wonderful Lady Dr was on call for the delivery. She was so skilled, so comforting, and in a way that you’d want in a trauma situation – she took charge. When we found out about our second pregnancy, my wife wanted to look for a female OB. I agreed. Look, I’m not saying Dude OBs are bad. If you and your wife can roll like that, good for you. I’m sure there are tons of great Dudes out there doing great OB/GYNing. Just telling our experience. Perhaps, the more important principle here is pregnancy and birth are intimate, deeply personal processes. If you are able, take the time to find a Dr with whom your wife is very comfortable.

Our Son was not planned. Or better, at ten months our Son descended on our three year plan like a missile from the sky. “In coming!” Five months after his birth, my wife was taking another home pregnancy test. Yep, you read that right. This time in secret because she could not bear the thought of weeping in front of me if the result confirmed her suspicions. It did. She wept. It was our two year anniversary.

Yeah, yeah, I knew what caused pregnancies. The problem was we were using a natural method of birth control, which is to say, we were using the method that gets you pregnant! Not saying it doesn’t work. Depending on the method, it could prove to be an effective form of birth control. Where the flaw lies is not in the method itself, but in its dependence on human, namely the husband’s self-control. We realized too late that the common backdrop for most of these conversations about natural birth control were kids – lots of kids. Crawling, crying, running around, throwing. From the midst of the swirling mayhem would come forth a calm voice, “Yes, we went with a natural method; it’s great.” Do not listen; look around.

Nine months later our beautiful daughter was born. After she was born my wife pretty much wanted me fitted for a full body latex suit.
“Hi honey. How was your day?”
“Good. And you?”
“Good. Here, why don’t you put this on?”
“Now? But it gets so hot in that thing? Do I really have to put it on before dinner?”

Speaking of latex … one day, my wife says, “Why didn’t we have some condoms around for those iffy days?” Aaah, right. Hey so those of you going natural, something to think about.

I bear his likeness. I am my Father’s Son. The narrow face, the creased brow, sunken eyes, the gaunt cheeks. He had the same protruding Adam’s Apple on that feeble, bird neck. Slight of build. And even the same shoulder that pops out of socket. Oh, and the hands, I have his hands. The weekend of his funeral, one of his friends, Mr. Moe grabbed me by the wrist as I walked past. Staring at my hands he marveled in Korean, “Ah, aren’t these exactly your Father’s hands?”

He gave me his shrewd mind. His penmanship. His athleticism. The deep voice. And for sure his palate. Keep your fried foods; hold the potato. Just give me some kind of Korean soup – myuk gook(seaweed soup), kong nam mul gook (bean sprout soup) – rice and some kimchee, and I’m good. I am my Father’s Son.

And yeah, I’ve struggled with that temper. Like it used to with him, far too often, it has gotten the better of me. Once my Mom told of his passive-aggressive, seven day silent treatment in the hearing of my wife. My Mom was laughing; my wife was not. She turned to me, her gaping look said, “Oh my God. That is you!” Yes, guilty. I am my Father’s Son.

He passed on his genes. And some stuff I could’ve done without. But he did more. My Dad showed me the importance of loyalty. He never sat me down for a lesson; I saw it in his friends. He taught me that a man ought to be generous. He abhorred lies. And had a particular disdain reserved for the disrespectful. From how I bowed, to how I sat, to how I spoke; my Dad taught me to be a respectful boy. These values he so deeply ingrained in me, they’ve become more who I am than the color of my hair. I do bear his likeness. Yeah, I am. I am my Father’s Son.

My Dad died on July 25th, 1985. I was fifteen years old. When he died, I hardly knew him. My older brother, himself just a year senior to me, sped us through the early morning darkness in our beat up, dark blue Ford Thunderbird. Neither one of us said a word. We both knew this was coming. When we walked into that room on the 5th floor of Queen of Angels Hospital, that room to which we’d grown so accustomed, I hardly felt anything. I looked over at my Mom and mostly felt sorry for her. The look on her face – she felt sorry for us.

I didn’t much like my Dad. He was your classic patriarchal Korean Father. Silent and slightly annoyed. Much of our interactions involved his barks and grunts, and our quick acquiescence. More than any other feeling, I remember the feeling of discomfort when he entered the room. And I remember thinking when he came alive in a gathering of his friends, once the Johnny Walker had strode around the table a few times, “Why doesn’t he laugh like that when he is with us?”

On August 1st, 1999, I became a father. Like sons have done throughout time, I followed in the footsteps of my Father into that most common, most important, most demanding of occupations. Fatherhood is no joke. Having walked in his shoes my gaze back to him has markedly softened. How easy it is to throw the tomato from the audience! Flawed, the judgements of an adolescent. The memories selective. My feelings were real, genuine … not always fair.

I’ve made peace with my Dad. Now when I think of him, it is with fondness. I regret that we never got a chance to talk as men, as fathers. I’m filled with warm sadness at never having walked down a fairway with him on a crisp, summer morning. I wish I could turn to him and say, “Thanks Dad. You did alright.”

Maybe one day I will.