Cooked Goose

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.