Familyhood (12 page)

It never works like that. Nowhere along the growth curve do kids announce, “Dad, Mom, y'see this little fleshy part of my thigh that's soft and still somewhat toddler-esque? Well take a good look, because that's all changing Wednesday at three.” No one tells you that, but come Wednesday, sure enough, that's all gone.

SO, AS IT TURNS OUT,
my father
did
know what he was doing. His game plan was simple but on the money. “
You
be the best kid you can be,
I'll
be the best father I can be, and let's see what happens.”

And what happens is:
ping, ping, ping, ping, ping!

But the good news is: ultimately, they're really all “good”
pings
.

And given that anything and everything could be gone by Wednesday, all we can do, I've decided, is try to pay attention Tuesday.

Life and Death

I
'm a big fan of
Life, not so much of Death. As the proud co-creator of two terrific human beings, I am proud of having contributed tangibly and positively to the former and, as far as I know, have never done anything to cause the latter.

I try to avoid even thinking about death, as a rule, mainly because it's depressing, but also because—why? Nothing good comes of it, really, unless the thinking time is spent re-imagining your life entirely so it can then be put to much better use than whatever it is you've been doing up till now. Otherwise it's just wasted, anxiety-provoking time you never get back.

But just as death comes on its own wacky, unpredictable schedule, so too can the very
discussion
of death. It just creeps up on you, sometimes, out of the blue.

The other day I was enjoying a perfect, sunny afternoon with my older son, blessedly oblivious to any Big Questions, when he chimed in with: “Daddy, I really want to speak at your funeral.”

I got to say: I wasn't expecting that. I was touched, but also worried. Did I miss a meeting? Had my doctor's office called with some unsolicited bulletins? And why would they have told my son and not me? Or worse, maybe there was some nefarious plot afoot and my days were numbered—and he was in on it.

After I caught my breath, I realized the kid probably didn't have any inside information, and was more than likely not involved with a family-wide conspiracy. He was just feeling loving. Yes, maybe he was expressing it a little dramatically, but still, it was very nice.

But I could see he had already moved on—his mind was racing, headed for deeper, more troubled waters.

“Wait a second, Dad.
You're
still going to speak at
my
funeral, right?”

Now I'm even more nervous. Why was he thinking about his own funeral? And why would he think I'd still be around for it? Had
he
been to the doctor lately? How many meetings are going on in my house that no one is inviting me to?

As all this is going through my mind, my son is just staring at me, waiting for . . . something. I tried to explain to him that unfortunately, this was one of those “either/or” situations. We can't both go to each other's funeral. And I had no intention of still being alive for
his
because he was going to live for, like, forever, whereas I might not make it through this conversation. I get to go first. That's how it works with parents and kids.

Nice. A decent handling of a thorny subject, I thought. His response—“Not always. Sometimes kids die.”

Was he trying to kill me
today
? I mean, how badly did he want to speak at my funeral?

Doggedly, I tried to explain to my son that in an “ideal” world—well, not really ideal so much as “in the natural course of events”—the young outlive the old; children hang around after their folks leave. Anything else would just be wrong, not to mention too painful to bear or even consider, though every parent I know has some daily passing, fleeting image of exactly that nightmare scenario. I didn't mention this to my son. Instead I just smiled reassuringly and told him that he'd outlive me by plenty, and that's exactly as it should be, so there was nothing to worry about.

He seemed to accept this for a moment, but then I could see it in his eyes; this “natural order of things” didn't appeal to him at all. Because it would mean being alive
without me
being around. Not that I'm such a treat, but because for good or for bad, I'm his dad.

I REMEMBER
the first time I heard that parents die. I was about five. I remember very vividly my mother telling me about something that happened years earlier, and in the most casual of tones, she said, “Yeah, I think that was a little after my father died.”

I was shocked. I mean I knew she used to have a father, and that he wasn't around anymore. But I had never done the math and seen that for him to be
dead
, he had to have, at some point,
died
. He had to have transitioned, somehow, from “alive” to “not so alive.” And my mother had, since then, become somehow okay with that. “A little after my father died” was how she said it. So matter-of-fact. Like “It's supposed to rain Tuesday.” As if having her dad die was
acceptable
. As if life could continue beyond that. This boggled my five-year-old mind.

WELL, I'M OLDER NOW.
I've had losses of my own. I get it. But as I gazed at my barely adolescent son, I hated the idea of him ever having to say, “This was a little after my father died.” I know him; he'd hate that.

So then how do I spare him from that? Only two ways I could think of: I could live to be a thousand—though I've spoken to my doctor, and for this to happen, I'd have to seriously cut down on meat and dairy. But at least by outliving my son's old age, I could spare him the pain of having to be the one left behind.

Or Option B—going entirely the other way—to guarantee that I outlive him, I could take him down myself. Which is not only the thought of an insane person, it also, admittedly, looks very bad on the police report. “Well, truth be told, Officer, I couldn't stomach the idea of my boy having to be that sad, so I, you know . . . had him taken out.”

Sure, that's less than stellar parenting. But I know my kids; they get upset when the cable goes out. I don't want to imagine them dealing with
me
going out.

THE CONCEPT OF SACRIFICE
on your children's behalf is instinctive, and non-negotiable. I shake my head in bemusement when flight attendants tell you, “In the event of any sudden loss of oxygen, put your mask on first,
then
your children's.” That's just never going to happen. I'm willing to bet money that whoever came up with that rule does not have kids.

The idea of putting myself before my children goes against every molecule in my body. (With one exception: if it's late at night and I'm hungry. There have been a few incidents, I confess, when there was one really good cookie left, and even though I knew my kids had their eye on it, I ate it and rationalized that they were asleep and would probably never notice. And if they did, I'd just tell them the truth: “I think Mom ate it.”)

But otherwise, forget it. I could never put myself before my children. The depth of love and animalistic protectiveness that we develop as parents is staggering. It becomes the very currency of your life. The hypothetical measure of your limits as a human being.

Example: I'm working out. I'm exhausted and want to be done. But I owe seven more sit-ups. My body tells me it's impossible. Maybe I can squeeze out one more. Conceivably two. But seven? Humanly impossible. What do I do? I imagine someone threatening my children. I envision, for example, Vikings holding my kids over a cliff, dangling them by their ankles and threatening to let go unless I finish the sit-ups. Guess what? I sit up pretty fast. Seven times in a row. It can be done; you just need the motivation.

And nothing motivates like the threat of misfortune befalling your child. It's a sick game, but I daresay we've all played the occasional round of “What Would You Do If Your Child's Life Depended On It?” Would you jump naked into the filthiest of rivers and swim to the other side? Splash! You betya. Would you eat whatever that dead thing on the side of the road is? Gimme a fork and pass the ketchup! Not even a question; you bet I'd do it. When it comes to your children, all is possible.

Now. Would you do the same for your spouse? Hmmm . . . let me think for a second. Hmmm. Well, we certainly don't love our spouses any
less
, but perhaps we love them a little
differently.
Neither of you would ever say you love your children more than you love each other. (You may think it—you're just not allowed to ever say it out loud.)

I don't question for an instant my wife's love for me. I also don't underestimate the speed with which she'd throw me under a speeding bus to protect our children. As I would her, I imagine. (Though I'm already preparing my excuses should the bus happen to stop on its own before impact. “My bad. It's just that the bus was moving so fast, and it was so yellow and everything . . . I thought you were someone else. But look—the kids are fine!”)

Is there any force on earth as compelling as a parent's vigilance? Our children turn us into the true animals we forget we are. And that ferocity kicks in at the very moment of their birth. They pop into the world, and at first glimpse, you're hooked. “Hi, nice to meet you, I'll be your father, and I will have your back from this moment on.”

SHORTLY AFTER
your kids are born, you realize your responsibility for them includes becoming more responsible about
yourself
. To whatever extent, for example, you ever considered bungee jumping, motorcycle racing, or shark-wrestling, you now reconsider. You weigh whatever thrill you imagine those activities will bring you against the thought of your kids discussing your demise. “Yeah, I'll miss him, but he sure showed that shark a thing or two, huh?” (Ironically, the shark's take on it is “Y'know, I wouldn't have even bothered with the guy but he got a little too close to my kids.”)

It's hard, though, to be perfectly responsible and absolutely disciplined all the time. I think I've mentioned I enjoy the occasional cigar, knowing full well it's not that good for me. Less healthful than, for example, tomato juice. But I'd always convinced myself that I was protected by my moderation, my pretty healthy lifestyle absent that one vice, and the belief that God will be kind to me because I've been, by and large, a nice guy.

Not the best plan, I admit. But it was working for me. And I always imagined that once I had kids, I'd stop. (I wonder if that's where they got the tradition of handing out cigars upon the birth of a child. Maybe it wasn't so much a gesture of celebration as an act of house cleaning. “Here. I'm not allowed to have these anymore—
you
take 'em.”)

Surprisingly, though, having children didn't make me give up the cigars. I just ratcheted up the rationalizations and qualifiers.

“Okay, I'll never smoke
near
the kids, or in a room they're going to be in later, I'll cut way down, and when they're old enough to call me on it, I'll stop.” (Figured I'd put a little of the onus on them. Use my bad habits as a teachable moment, y'see. Let them discover the joy of empathy and concern for others.) And I was certain that I'd never be able to withstand the pressure.

To my surprise, I've withstood it pretty good.

“Daddy, aren't cigars bad for you?”

“Yes, but not like cigarettes. Or napalm. Those are
really
bad. These are less bad.”

“But, still . . . they're bad for you, right?”

“Well, yes, but . . . I had salad earlier. So, all in all, there's nothing to worry about.”

It's amazing what reasonably intelligent adults can justify. I have a friend who shared that he doesn't always buckle his seat belt when driving. He finds it an inconvenience. “Short distances only,” he feels compelled to qualify. “To the store. And only on surface streets; on the freeway I always buckle up. Always.”

This is the same friend, by the way, who fanatically never eats carbs. “I see,” I said to him. “So you'll risk death on the way to dinner, but when you get there, you won't eat the rolls.”

TRY AS I MIGHT
to ignore the reality of an ultimate death, I do periodically make vague, halfhearted attempts to account for the possibility.

Like when we travel, my wife and I always fly separately, the logic being that while some terrible fate might befall
one
of our planes, there's much less of a chance fate would stick it to
both
of us. On the same day. So this way, at least one of us will be there for the kids.

When we travel with the kids, however, we all travel together. Somehow we decided—while never quite articulating it—that if God forbid we all go down together, “being together” would take the sting out of the part about “going down.” If tragedy should strike, at least we wouldn't have to bear the blow of losing one another. Others may grieve and miss us, but we'd be spared all that because . . . well, we'd be dead.

And these statistical considerations and precautions are made surprisingly devoid of emotion or lengthy deliberation. They're just things to consider when you're a parent. Like inheritance.

That's something I've yet to see anyone deal with comfortably or particularly successfully: the eternal question of “who gets what when you die.”

There are many things you hope you impart to your children: a set of morals and values, for example. A healthy balance of self-confidence and openhearted humility would also be nice. You may or may not succeed in any of this, but either way, nobody's going to fight over it.

But your money and everything you have is another matter. This is the stuff of which family dramas are born. If not handled properly, this is exactly what causes loving families to deteriorate and gives surviving children all they need to resent one another and squabble well into old age.

There are several schools of thought on how to handle these things. Some parents believe in giving their children everything immediately upon their passing. Divide everything equally, and just pass it along. A reasonable approach, but not without its pitfalls. Divvying up “stuff” equitably is not so easy. Some stuff carries more emotional attachment. One kid always loved that painting over Grandma's couch, another kid may covet that watch Uncle Momo left us. One kid may want the living room rug, others may want to stay well clear of the rug because they know what happened on that rug when Mom and Dad were in Mexico that time.

My own parents started twenty years ago asking my sisters and me to start “tagging” stuff—so we “wouldn't fight” when they were gone. Ironically, nothing bonded my siblings and me as forcefully as the mutual disinterest we had in almost all of our parents' stuff. “You want the painting of the clowns in the park? Yeah, me neither.”