It Never Ends

My father and I have a lot in common. We both have four children. I use the present tense to remind myself that, though three of my four are under the age of four, "the job," as I have come to refer to my status of dad, is never truly over.

My father-in-law brought this to my attention just after the birth of my younger son.

My wife and I have two of each, incidentally: two crazy, screaming, farting, giggling boys and two beautiful, adorable, wonderfully admiring little girls on the younger end. I no longer listen to those parenting veterans who try to warn me of the pitfalls of having two daughters, particularly so close in age as mine are. I have tired of the constant barrage of tales of teenage doom that seem to be the common response of those who learn that I am the father of females. My boys are nuts. That's it. That's all I can really say in the present. Do I believe that my girls will be given to wild emotional fits and hormonal rages of demonic proportions in their adolescence and subsequent years? Absolutely. But I live in the now. I can only comment on what is directly in front of me. And daily, I am met with a kind of primeval savagery and a host of bodily noises from the bodies, mouths and orifices of my boys.

But when my younger of the two sons was born, and I was (at the time) a brand new father in terms of infant care, my older son being the product of my wife's first marriage, I was visibly nervous as legions of visitors descended upon my wife, my newborn son and I in the hospital. Noticing my tension as yet another adoring relative felt compelled to handle the boy who was not yet twenty-four hours old, my father-in-law, one of the adoring visitors who had the insight to keep his distance, simply smiled compassionately at me and sighed "It never ends."

I knew immediately what he meant. I know that for the rest of my life, I will feel protective, proud, and at times afraid of these little people who continue to populate our home at a surprising, yet customarily Catholic rate. It really is the ultimate joke of nature that one enters into such a vocation with not so much as a signature or handshake, but rather with a few rare (and now fondly remembered) moments of privacy with his chosen mate. In such ecstasy, one does not consider the shortened meals and abbreviated sleep that will characterize the rest of his existence--the interrupted conversations, the constant worry and lack of peace that will punctuate his days.

And so a man such as I finds himself the unwitting player in the ultimate domestic farce. I am the bumbling, faltering, outrageously moronic "doofus:" the pretender to my own paternal throne. Parenthood, the most troubling and delicate of all professions, welcomes all applicants without so much as a training seminar or handbook. You simply try your best to emulate the closest approximation of fatherly wisdom and demeanor at your disposal. If the television supplies a less than attractive array of role models, why then you look to your own dad.

And so, I notice more and more the many ways in which I am constantly doing the very best impression of my own father that I can. I dance and dance, trying to convince both children and wife (who seems to have mastered this parenting thing without the slightest effort) that I know what I am doing. And through all of this, I am reminded that the job of shaping the lives and futures of these very dependent creatures never ends.

So... here we go.