From Son to Father

How does a son turn from an irresponsible teen to a hard-working, loving husband and father? I suppose most people would say it's just the way things are supposed to be, and I agree. We want our children to grow up to be productive, positive members of society and while we are rearing them we have faith that they will turn out well while doubting our abilities to make it happen. After all, we don't really know what we are doing as parents. We have no manual, no program, no map. We do have our own history and the way we were raised to either emulate or reject, most of us thinking that we can be better parents than the ones we had, even if they were really great parents. We make mistakes; we make some brilliant moves. The parent-child relationship waxes and wanes having its good and bad times. Life goes on. And suddenly the kid you had to sit down with at the kitchen table to make him do his homework, the kid who liked to make his cat sit on top of his head, the kid who made a bazooka out of several paper towel rolls is a father singing to his infant. He's changing diapers, giving baths, planting kisses on his baby. He is patient with the fussy child while he heats bottles. He is loving to his wife as he hands her the baby to be fed. In short, he has become a productive, positive member of society - an adult. A good one. So, in spite of parents who tried their best but stumbled sometimes, despite the fact that they didn't stay together till death did them part, the miracle has occurred. Their son has a son. Let the cycle begin again.

I wrote this poem when my son was 15. It seems appropriate now in a different way than it was back then. Isn't that one of the great things about poetry?

Conversation Overheard Between Mother and Son

“What’s most important in this world?" he asked.

“Being loved,” she replied,
"With mother-warm baby toe-kisses,
And Daddy-tossed jet journeys to the clouds.
With your first love’s glowing cameo ring
To look at in the bedtime dark
And your last love’s shining face
Basking you in the sunrise morning gold.
With a homemade nurse’s dryer-heated towels wrapping you
Against the fever’s freezing lull
And hot cocoa presented with soft white top on ice blue nights.
With warm cookies and carefully packed lunches
And healthy early bedtimes to grow strong on.
With friends’ smile-lit eyes when you walk into the room
And reach out and touch someone calls from far continents or nearby towns.
With someone who shines with your joys, saddens with your sorrows,
Laughs with your undiminished spirit,
And who sits, waiting with you for the end
In the quiet room
Of crisp white smells, emptiness-terror, and loss.”

“Being loved,” she replied, "is most important always."

“I’m not so sure,” he ventured.
“Being loved is powerful and very, very, good.
But what about
Loving?”

“Ah," she sighed, new respect illuminating her eyes,
“I’ll have to think about that.”