Straighten up and fly right

There's an ugly satisfaction in forcing one of your kids to do as you tell them. To start, you're angry.  The little you-know-what is being a real little you-know-what, and has just done something monumentally stupid.  How freaking hard is it to figure out that you don't [insert ridiculous thing here; recommended: dump oatmeal all over the kitchen and dining room; pee on your chair; hit his sibling; wake up the baby]?  It's time to straighten up and fly right, junior.

You outweigh the kid by a factor of five or more, depending.  If they're really freaking out, that makes it complicated, but it just makes you madder and stronger and less concerned about being gentle.  Getting them to do what they're supposed to - or at least, to come physically under control - well, it's not like you're a cop trying to subdue somebody on Angel Dust.  The kid is done for.

Then what?  Getting them physically rallied is only step one.  After that you've gotta make sure that they actually comply, actually do what it is that they're supposed to do.  Wheedling with them and cooing at them is long past.  This ain't the time for, "hooooon-ey, it's time to [insert correct course of action; essentially boils down to 'quit being such a dumbass']".  Best way at this point is fear: you've already just thrown them around a little.  Now it's time to impress upon them your godlike power to wound them where it counts.

A little lip quiver.  The kid is tough, but you are the parent.  You've seen them cry a million times, basically daily since they were born.  Not gonna stop you.  They needed a little discipline.  Not like you slapped anybody around, just grabbed them by the wrist and hissed at them a little.  You can't let them turn out like that bratty one your best friend from college has.  They need to show a little respect.

Four hours and a glass of Jameson later, you pinch the bridge of your nose.  Part of you has been wanting to apologize to the kid since about two minutes after the encounter.  Part of you is really, honestly struggling with the balancing act of being a good parent versus just being so goddamned tired and stressed and worn thin at how hard you're trying to be a good parent, spouse, employee...

You love this kid.  Love like you never knew was possible.  To say that you love them like they were a part of you is trite and stupid; you don't love your nose like this, not even close.  You love this kid enough to put up with them sobbing into your chest at two in the goddamn morning when they've had a nightmare, and you've got an important meeting the next day and are giving a presentation and have absolutely got to be sharp but here you are anyway and it is exactly the perfect thing for you to be doing right then and there.  You love them enough to wipe the snot off of their noses when they're sick even though they scream at you and writhe like you're trying to pour fire ants up that poor little stuffed-up nose.  You love them enough to really truly get panicked when you see a power cord in their little hands, even though you have never in your life been electrocuted by a power cord nor ever known anybody who so much as got a tiny shock from one, not even that kid in first grade who used to eat glue.

You are not qualified for this.

You are not equipped to love so much, to carry so much responsibility for another person's life on your shoulders.  You did pretty well at wiping butts, and even managed not to drop the kid too many times onto anything hard.  Keeping them alive?  Check.  There have been more close calls than you'd care to think about, but you've pretty much got this one.

But there's this whole other layer on it, because just keeping them on life support is not going to come anywhere close to cutting it.  That kid looks at you sometimes like the whole world could just go crashing into the sun, and it'd just be the two of you sitting out there in space, wrapped up in how much they love you, and you'd be fine.  If pure, raw love were a thing, there'd be nowhere to hold it, no place you could possibly keep all that stuff they are feeling at you.  You're perfect.  Perfect.

But you're not, and sometimes you want to shake them and yell at them and scream into their little ears that they are so fucking stupid to trust you this much.  You are going to hurt them and fail them and disappoint them, because nobody, nobody deserves what they are giving to you.

Well, shut up.  That's called parenthood.

There's no easy answer, not to anything, not anymore.  How many more carrots do they have to eat before they can get dessert?  Who the hell knows?  Where is that written down in a parenting book?  Mostly you just do whatever you've got the energy left to do, and pray that it's good enough.  And that little kid who loves you with such reckless abandon... whatever you've got, they'll love you anyhow.  You can grab them by the arm and hiss at them and make their little lip quiver, and the next morning they'll give you a big hug and tell you how happy they are that they are not a robot, and did you know that spiders are arachnids?

You don't deserve that.  I don't care who you are.  You can't possibly.

But you can try.

Not a one of us has got it figured out, no matter how many letters we've got after our names.  Props to the parents of twelve, but don't assume you know my kid or that he's like any of yours.

But I do know this: you've almost always got two seconds to remember those hugs.

Remember them, and you won't fly too far off course.  Maybe you'll even get it right a little more often.

All Saint's Day

My son is six days old, and I do not believe in angels.

Don't take that the wrong way: he's beautiful, in a way I've never known before. I can just stare at him, marveling at the way he purses his lips and raises his eyebrows while he sleeps, or watching his lower lip quiver as he emits his low-pitched, angry cries. I love just talking nonsense to him, blabbing about nothing in particular just so he can hear the sound of my voice. He knew my voice from his first moments, going from full-on wailing to curious attention with only a few words from his old man. Every time it happens, I'm amazed by it: this little person places such faith and trust in me that a few nonsensical words can bring him back from the abyss and into the firelight once again. This is the stuff on which families are built.

But he's very much a little human: he poops (believe me, he poops), he cries at inopportune hours (usually starting when we put him down around nine at night), and he struggles to figure out whether fingers in his mouth can help him feed more effectively (they can't). He's wonderful, but he's no angel.

We've just taken his big brother--formerly known as "the dog"--for a walk. Since we got back from the hospital, these walks have been exclusively with one parent or the other, but tonight we're getting the whole family together for it (minus the cats, who would sooner take a bath inside a roaring vacuum cleaner). The air on this first night of November is crisp, but not too cold. It's a good fall evening. My son is bundled up in a thick blanket, along with hat, thinner receiving blanket, and a onesie; cradled close to his mama's chest he's as warm as can be. His brother is a little less sanguine: this noisy little bundle has dropped an atom bomb on the poor dog's existence. His skin is actually breaking out in stress-induced hives, and there's been a lot of whining and nervous barking at invisible things. He's been great with the baby, if a little overly-concerned, but the strain is showing on the poor guy. The walk is good for him, but from his fidgety leash-tugging I'm not sure if he'd prefer it if we left the baby out of it.

We do our usual loop, my wife and I making small talk about how gosh-darned cute our newborn is and what a good job we did with him. It's been a frenetic week, between delivering a baby into the world and then having relations over all day long, and the chance to spend time with just our little family is a real balm on our souls. We're all tired, though, so when we're maybe two dozen feet from the stairs up to our apartment and our eldest pops a squat, it's met with groans from both parents. The trash can is a fair bit behind us, and it's not like we're going to take his poop home with us.

"You go ahead," I tell my wife. "I'll run this back to the dumpster and be up in a minute."

She nods wearily, and I can tell from her eyes that she's torn between wanting to do this together, as we always have, and the fatigue that we're discovering is part of parenthood. The other thing we're discovering is that taking care of one another is more important than ever, and when one of us offers to do something like comfort the baby at 3am or let the other one go inside a few minutes early, the best thing to do is be grateful. She gives me a kiss and heads up the stairs with our son.

I've got the little mound scooped and bagged in moments, tying it off with fingers long accustomed to such work. As I tug on the dog's leash slightly and he starts to trot alongside me, I take a deep breath and look around. Our apartment complex is sizeable; our building is to my left and a matching one is to my right, with asphalt and cars snuggled up to each one. I'm standing in a grassy median between the two parking areas, maybe a dozen yards wide and a hundred or so long. In the summer, residents will bring grills down here and cook out, laughing and drinking and making merry. Under the autumn starlight, the strip of green is empty, and I trudge wearily down the sidewalk that bisects it, heading in the direction of the community dumpster.

"Congratulations," comes a voice from on high. "I see that you just had your baby."

My head whips around. There is someone else out here, a middle-aged Hispanic guy wearing a dark red jacket and heading in the same direction I am. I'd actually been slowing down a bit to let him get in and out of the dumpster area before crowding it with a stressed-out pit bull. There's no chance in the world that my dog would hurt the guy, but I could definitely see some excited jumping and licking, and that's just not what everybody wants when taking the trash out in the dark.

However, it isn't this guy who's talking; the voice came from my right, from the other set of apartments. We've all got balconies, and I scan over the ones opposite my building to see if I can figure out where the voice is coming from. I don't see anyone... but there's a bright light shining into the parking lot from one of the support columns on the second-floor balcony nearest me, and maybe I can make out a figure...

"Boy or girl?" the voice prompts.

"Boy," I call back. "And thank you; it's been awesome so far." The voice is definitely coming from that balcony.

"I've got some of my own," the voice replies. It's male, but I can't tell much more than that. I haven't really seen any sign of movement from the figure on the balcony, but the light is bright enough that my eyes are totally dazzled, so who knows?

It continues, "It really is wonderful." Then, pausing, as if figuring out that it needs a little bit of explanation, it offers, "I sit out here in the evenings, sometimes. I've seen you all walking before."

That does sound a bit familiar; I think I've seen someone on that balcony before. Still. "Yeah, we just got back from the hospital a couple of days ago. It's been kind of exhausting."

I can hear the voice smile. "But it's worth it. I promise you that."

There's something about the way he says it... the way he promises and doesn't just tell me it's so... I feel warm inside, and familiar. I smile back. "Thanks," I say, "I believe you."

I'm at the dumpster by now, and it blocks me from his view as I walk up the short path to the trash chute and creak the steel door open. I fling the poo bag over the top of the piled bags that my neighbors have left sitting right at the top of the chute--really, does no one think to try to put their trash all the way into the dumpster?--and head back down to the parking lot. I squint up at the balcony again, from a slightly different angle than before that has the light shining not as directly into my eyes.

Nothing. Nobody is up there. I can't see it clearly, but I can make out an empty chair. At least, I think I can; it's still dark and I'm still running on "new dad" levels of sleep. I'd been up at the dumpster for what, twenty, thirty seconds? Long enough for someone to have decided to go in. There's enough ambient noise out here that I probably wouldn't have heard the balcony door open and close. Right?

"Well... have a good night," I offer to the darkness. "And thanks."

The darkness makes no reply.

As I climb the stairs toward warmth, and my waiting wife and son, it strikes me what day this is: November 1, All Saints' Day. In times past, many believed that on the previous night, All Hallows' Eve, the restless dead stalked the earth. It was a dangerous time to be out at night. But come middle watch, the souls of the virtuous dead had their chance to visit the world once again. I'm pretty sure legend had it that these souls only had until dawn to journey about; daylight has come and gone again since then. Still... the thought tickles the back of my mind: who was that, really? A friendly neighbor?

Probably. But maybe not...

I don't believe in angels. They come with too much baggage. But something about the idea of one of my son's great grandparents--or his great, great, great grandparents--stopping in for a quick visit... well, that's not so awful.

It was probably a neighbor. I'll see him again one night, he'll ask about the baby in a familiar voice, and the spell will be broken. But in the meantime...

Whoever you were, wherever you are, may your dreams be sweet, and your promises true.