Fatherhood

1/30/12 (My Fatherhood: An Epic Adventure - by Rod Stauber) The trail twists right and left through the high desert. The riding is some of the best in the world. Its October, the air is dry and crisp, cool but not cold. I swing the front tire gently left, then right, and left again. It’s like a dance as the tires dig into the dirt and follow the beautiful curve of the rock and sand along the trail. I approach a drop of a couple of feet, a little flick up on the handlebars, shift my weight back and drop perfectly onto the two mountain bike tires. I run out a bit and stop and turn to watch the drop. My wife is behind me a bit, but soon she comes into view and as she approaches I can tell she is unsure. She lifts the front, but not high enough and lands on her front wheel. With the carried momentum, she goes over the handle bar and tumbles to a stop. A profound shift has happened in our relationship. I love my wife of many decades, my high school sweetheart, and love of my life, but in that moment, I was more concerned with my unborn daughter- 3 months along, than with my wife. I sit in the San Francisco airport, watching air traffic and ground crews, missing my daughter and son. My daughter, so small back then, is 17 years old now and my son 15. From that moment in the biking desert, without any real conscious switch, a part of me awakened that wants to protect and guide, to educate and to coach, to love and to shelter, to be a father to my children. Fatherhood was awakened in me that day, not the day of conception, not the birth day, but that moment when I feared that I had not done my duty to protect my unborn daughter from the first danger that had put her at risk. To this day, as I sit waiting for my second flight of the day, I long to protect my children from a world that I know all too well does not have their best interest in mind. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a doom-and-gloomer, but for the first part of our kids’ lives, they need to protection and shelter. This isn’t unusual in the animal kingdom. Raising children requires the parent to feed them, dress them, shelter them from conditions that will scare them or undermine their confidence, lead them into hurt feelings, care for skinned knees- essentially guide them through all the risks that come with growing up. I remember the first time my son crashed his bicycle. He had essentially taught himself to ride a bike. It wasn’t one of those cul-de-sac experiences with daddy running behind as his son just rides away under his own power as the dad cheers. I was working at my desk at our home office and my son was out playing in the yard. He walked in and announced he could ride his bike down our long driveway….okay…so I went out and watched and sure enough, he knew how to ride a bike. Several years later we were riding behind the public library, going slowly really, but he lost control in the gravel and hit hard. He was so small, so vulnerable, and as the tears welled up in his eyes he crawled into my lap and open arms as I sat in the gravel and consoled him. I miss that moment so much right now. That moment is gone. Fatherhood is a thousand little moments of mourning. I miss my daughter crawling onto my back to wrestle. My son would join in and if we were really serious about it they would ask me to put on my “pulling shirt”. I don’t like anyone tugging my clothes out of shape, so I had this striped rugby shirt that was my “pulling shirt”. We would roll and wrestle on the floor as they tugged and pulled me to the ground, and crawled on top of me to declare their well earned victory. Night time, the ‘routine’ so many parents talk about, I mourn the loss of those. I can still go into my daughter’s room and sit on her bedside as we close out a day…but nothing is as sweet as my son’s hugs were after a few bedtime stories. Nothing can ever replace the good night kisses with just eyelashes that my daughter and I used to share. Memories, made in a moment, made without intentionality, just a shared moment that you don’t even realize will define your memories about your kids for your entire life. Another plane pulls in, another takes off. We lived on the east coast for a very short period of time when the kids were two and four. Over a winter. The snow fell deep one morning outside the apartment. We bundled up our two kids and went out to play and make a snow man. The kids were so proud of their little creation. Later, my son was asleep on the couch next to the Christmas tree. He was so little. Just a 2-year, old all tuckered out softly snoring on the couch. I wasn’t a big part of their lives when we lived in Rhode Island. I worked far too much. But my wife filled their days with laughter, learning and fun. I missed out on memories there. So, we switched gears that year and moved back to the West Coast, to start over in a place and in a way where we could both be more involved in family life. They’re boarding a flight to our nation’s capitol next gate over. Ours isn’t far behind. We moved back to Oregon and lived with, and then near, my parents. I began working with my father. We had 10 or so years of home schooling our children, working with my dad, and buying and breaking in our first home. So many mornings started with a ceramic kettle of water heating on the gas stove, a warm cup of tea, looking out over the back yard as the kids woke up to start their day. I would drag my feet as they ate breakfast and finally pull myself away for the 1-mile drive to work. By mid-day we would all head to the local Mexican restaurant for lunch. So many meals spent around those tables as the kids grew. A little tortilla chip with sugar/cinnamon and some whipped cream ended each meal. I can remember them always looking forward to the little dessert. Prior to our home school years, my daughter was in the small local public school. She needed a shot. I sat on a chair in the nurse’s office, my daughter in my lap with the sleeve of her dress pulled up, her head with a beautiful head of hair, was buried in my neck waiting for the sting. I couldn’t take the shot for her, my role was to comfort her when it happened. Much like my son and his bike, I almost begin to cry to think of the tenderness, the innocence and trust in that moment. I with I could put my kids under my arm and protect them from all the hurts and disappointments that will make them wise adults. I want to stop the undeserved accusations, the mean-spirited attacks, the over-aggressive work mates, all the little hurts that accompany the life we live…but I can’t. Some of these hurts will define them. Some will focus them on their life’s work, and some will cause tears and hurts that will be with them a long time. We all have those, but I wish we didn’t. I wish my daughter could sit in my lap and trust me to care for her for decades to come. For the little exchanges my son and I have, play punching and fighting in the kitchen as mom preps another great meal. Time, time is so cruel, just ticking forward unrelenting. Another flight just left, this time for Chicago. We went to Hawaii for 3 weeks when the kids were 8 and 10. We flew through the airport I’m sitting in now. I remember playing cards with the kids on the gray carpet as we awaited the leg from San Francisco to Kona. Playing cards, light hearted laughter- an adventure beginning. Time had to pass for us to get to Kona. Time had to pass so we could play in the surf, flum-da-ditch, hike out to the lava. I realize time has to pass. It is how life works. If I’d only had an awareness in the moment, that THAT moment was never going to happen again…but to what end? I have photos, I have videos in 1080HD on a 50” screen, but it’s not the same. My daughter and son wanted to ride the boats used to transport guests around the expansive Hilton hotel property by themselves after dinner one night. They knew what building our room was in. They knew how to get around without us. So we let them. We shadowed them the whole way, watching as they navigated their little adventure “on their own”. My days of shadowing them are coming to an end. I can no longer stand off a bit and make sure nothing goes sideways, ready to step in. I will spend more time hearing about the hurts and disappointments of their lives over the phone, on facebook, or via a text. I don’t look forward to that. I don’t always engage in their lives as I should. I love them, but parents aren’t perfect. I get my feelings hurt, nose bent out of shape, and separate emotionally from them…but they are in my house, under my roof. Soon, they won’t be. It won’t be an emotional separation, it will be physical. No matter how much I desire to hold them, to hug them, to give my son a punch on the arm and throw my arm over his shoulder, it won’t be a possibility. It hasn’t even happened yet and I already mourn that loss. Flight will board in 10 minutes, then a short hop to LA. My kids are in Oregon. My wife dropped me off at the airport a few hours ago. I will be gone 18 days. My daughter and I didn’t separate on great terms. She wants to talk with me, but doesn’t. She wants to grow up and start the adult adventure, but doesn’t. I don’t want her to either. I don’t want either of my kids to leave. We drove across the country as a family. My son had a birthday on the road. We played in a water park in South Dakota. My daughter was in a bad mood. I don’t remember why, I probably played a part in it. I remember scrambling around the water park, going down the slides, laughing, and at the same time wondering how to bring my daughter into a better place. What could I say that would help her out of her negative turn? These tensions happen all the time in parenting: celebrating an achievement with my son, navigating hopelessness and frustration with my daughter, or vice-versa. If you attached all the luggage carts from every airport in the world together could they go around the whole globe? I think so. We lived in Seattle when the kids were born, with all that a thriving city has to offer young families. I remember buying groceries from my kids at the Children’s Museum. I remember the bouncy equipment inflated at the Seattle Center, the ferry boat rides, the bus, the library, so many memories. My daughter had a stuffed bear. We had a red wagon. We used to pull her around the sidewalks near our home, bear in arms, warm blanket, just walking, talking, looking at the world. We got a stray dog years later, when we lived in Oregon. Within a day of getting Romeo, he was very sick. The vet said it was a virus called Parvo, we could spend $300 dollars we didn’t have, or just put the dog down. My daughter was there, maybe 5 or 6 years old, she somehow knew what was going on…we found the money and the dog spent a few more years with us. My son has a best friend, he has several friends, but this one has been around since he was 5. Every Friday night for years and years they spent the night at one of our houses or another. We literally have watched them grow from 3-foot little tikes to 6-foot young men. My son went from a tiny little cuddle bug, to as tall as his mom in one year. I have no recollection of the switch from child, to young man. It was subtle, I missed it. (Maybe he did too? ) He was in martial arts for a long time. I remember sitting and watching him practice his discipline- making his body do the moves, learning the forms. I helped teach a video club for a while that he was a part of, never did turn out anything for the big screen, but we enjoyed the process and movie making and the product. My daughter and I were in Sydney, Nebraska one summer day and I got a call that my son had crashed his mountain bike. I recall that my son’s best friend was with him, and there was some confusion as to where my wife could access them with a car. They were in Oregon. I was in Nebraska and I was the lifeline for the correct information to unite the two parties. My son had a bad concussion, broken helmet, scrapes, but overall he was going to be okay. The bond between men is different somehow. If that had been my daughter I would have wanted to be on the next plane home…but with my son, it’s as though those experiences will mold him, will grow him, will be what he draws off of as he raises his sons. But I would never want my daughter to have to go through that. I fear I have tried to protect her too much; have sheltered her too much. But, now she has to grow up, to become a woman. She can’t do that with me sheltering her at every turn. Tension. So much tension. The clouds are thousands of feet below me. We are flying. I am flying, away from them. My daughter’s friend was over the other night. She was crying, I gave her a hug. Fathers want to protect, they want to comfort. I am better at that then letting go. I am weak in the area of launching my daughter into the world. I want her to stay. She has what it takes. She has the intelligence. She can manage a house, a schedule, a kitchen, and maybe even a man….she is better prepared than I was. Better prepared than her mom was. I still don’t want her to go. As the year approaches that she goes, I don’t think I am going to handle it well. I will attempt to force learning that isn’t necessary; force my will and decisions into her life unasked for; force myself to believe that if I can convince her she has one more thing to learn she won’t go yet…tension. She has to go. She has to grow. I have to let her. My son will work with me several times this summer. I have a father’s pride to see him work hard, maintain his own with his work mates, and grow up. We spent several days on a motorcycle on Vancouver Island a few years back. We would ride during the day and sit in the hotel hot tub at night. We rode in the rain. We rode windy roads to the ocean. We rode ferries. Last year we tried to ride to central Oregon, he doesn’t fit on the bike with me anymore. It was sad in a way. Another moment, another memory, another time has passed. I am troubled by my fatherhood role currently. I am troubled that when my children are officially adults, just a few years from now, I won’t know how to act. As a friend? As a mentor? Still as a father dispensing advice, trying to educate? How do I maintain this memory of these great kids as kids, and let our relationships develop? Tension, always tension. I will land in a few minutes and begin my trek across the country. I miss my daughter, I miss my son. I miss them since they are not sitting on this flight with me, but more than that I miss the time of when they were young- when I could hold them in my arms as they fell asleep, hold them through shots and scraped knees. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I don’t really know how to love them correctly or completely. I’m not sure I’m supposed to. I do know this, all I do, all I try, every failed conversation, every heated exchange, every slammed door, every confused and resigned look thrown back at me, every mistake judged correctly in the moment or over time, all of it is because I love them. All of this “failure” is due to the fact that I don’t know how to do it right, but I am so incredibly happy to try again and again, because I love them so much and I love being their father.