What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

Forever My Father - Go Radio (mp3)

We’re asked the question innumerable times as kids and teens. We’re constantly asking ourselves this awful trap of a question from the minute we begin to grasp that yes, one day, we will actually grow up and become our own versions of the old people we see sulking around us, bossing us around, stressing out over tire pressure and leaving the house on time and carping about some coworker named Hanrahan.

Unlike having my wisdom teeth pulled or my first kiss or the first time I dove off the high dive, I don’t recall much about the moment I actually realized I would become a grown-up.

Maybe it happened the way the whole Santa Claus bubble burst, which is to say gradually in such tiny increments that I don’t know the day it began so much as I know the day I couldn’t go back. It wasn’t until my college years when I saw my own mom crumble into pieces as she dealt with the death of her own parents that I knew I couldn’t remain a child.

My mom kept this cool pre-fabricated booklet that chronicled my elementary school years. In addition to a folder for pictures and keepsakes, it included a list of factoids (height, weight) and blanks. “Favorite sport,” “Favorite book,” and the aforementioned “What I want to be when I grow up.”

In second grade, I wanted to be a baseball player. I had moved up from catcher in first grade to second baseman, a huge leap forward in baseball evolution. Modern people don’t know this, but in my day, the catcher on a first grade team had to sit in a little box several feet back behind home plate. No mask. No big cool mitt. Just stand in the corner and wait for foul balls. And, if you caught a foul, the batter was out.

So basically, the catcher was for the kid who couldn’t play anything, and the catcher’s only job was to be the asshole who broke the heart of players on the other team. So a move up to second base was kind of a big deal.

In third grade, I wanted to be a priest. The only two denominations I’d ever known to that point were Baptist and Presbyterian, and neither of them had jack squat to do with priests. But I was at this new school, Lutheran School, and their religion seemed really intense and formal compared to mine. That's my best guess.

And so on with fourth grade (football player!) and fifth grade (fireman!) and sixth grade (fireman again!).

And then I moved up to junior high, and I stopped filling out those surveys because the book ended. And I went to a school with all boys, so we stopped playing those games where you fold paper into funky origami shapes and predict your future and your girlfriend. And we stopped playing any and all games where the point was to find love or romance, because we were too busy playing games where actual points were scored using spherical objects of some size or another.

I’m not saying I stopped thinking about the future just because I went to a boys school. But it certainly decreased greatly in frequency, and I stopped talking about it. Even late night sleepovers with friends rarely involved talk of adulthood. We were too busy wondering whether Jean Gray and Scott Summers ever actually did it or playing a 12th-level paladin or 7th-level dwarf. Talk of romance and adventure always revolved around the characters we created, not ourselves.

By eighth grade, even if the words never passed my lips, all I knew for certain was that I wanted to be a dad someday. I knew it so intensely that I took it for granted. Nobody talked about it. I think most of us assumed it was just going to happen, that it was part of growing up. Circle of life yada yada.

In fact, I more specifically remember my friend Scott proclaiming he didn’t want kids. He said he didn’t want kids because he was so scared he would screw them up, because he felt so screwed up himself. And I remember being so scared, because I wanted to be a sympathetic friend, but I was also horrified that his opposition might be contagious, and I couldn’t have this particular desire taken from me.

Even though I spent most of my adolescent life feeling like the garbage monster from Star Wars, my desperate awkwardness never wrecked my warped certainty that I would be a good and loving father.

The only obstacle I ever saw that would prevent my fatherhood was the need to find some woman foolish and desperate enough to see me as a worthy mate and partner. That part was in question right up to the point where the preacher said I could kiss her and walk out of the church as husband and wife, and there were times after that when I was pretty sure it was all just a dream from Dallas.

Fatherhood has had some crap days. I’ve had days when I wanted to flush my own head down the toilet rather than listen to my daughter whine or attempt to negotiate with my son during a demonic temper tantrum. But the crappiest days are the days I’ve gone to sleep feeling like a failure father, when my own flaws and shortcomings and failings bleed into the lives of those wonderful creatures who share my blood and my roof.

I never thought my parents were perfect, and I never expected parental perfection of myself. I just want to be “good enough” or maybe just a smidge better.

For better or worse, Happiness was never my parental goal*. A sense of purpose and meaning, a sense of responsibility, and the comfort to know that I will love them no matter their flaws or their failures yet demand and expect that they always yearn to improve.

I can’t help but believe if they have these things -- purpose, responsibility, love, drive -- they’ll find joy more often than not.



* -- The latest Atlantic parenting-related article (“How To Land Your Kid In Therapy”) is so exciting for parents like me to read, because it validates our fear that too many parents are too involved, too controlling, too insistent that everything in their child’s life be like Candyland instead of like Sorry!  

** -- The T-shirt text on the right is a bunch of shit, because happiness is not a fish you can catch or some pet hamster you can simply buy and keep.

Frosted Flakes

Sugar Sugar - Mary Lou Lord + Semisonic (mp3)
Jonny Quest/Stop That Pigeon - Reverend Horton Heat (mp3)

When I was a kid, my father would only be assigned the task of going to the grocery store on rare occasions. Maybe three or four times a year.

It seems like I was always sitting in our kitchen on a Saturday morning eating cereal when Dad would walk in and ask me what kind of cereal I wanted from the store.

Because I was something of a cereal slut as a kid, my whole-grain affairs changed with the seasons. One time it might be a Monster Cereal. Next it would be Corn Pops. Then Honeycomb. Golden Grahams. Cookie Crisp. Lucky Charms. Crunchberrys. The list really does go on and on. Hell, I even went on a Crispix binge for several months.

So I'd give Dad my order. And he would return, a couple of hours later, with a box of Frosted Flakes. Every time.

In my younger years, I thought he just wasn't paying attention, or maybe he misunderstood me. In my pre-adolescent years, I took it personally. He was asking just so he could make damn sure to get me something I didn't ask for, either to spite me or to "put me in my place." By the time I hit the high school years, I wouldn't even give him an order. I'd just sigh and tell him I didn't care.

Maybe it was always intentional with Dad. Ask me what I want; then go out and get me what he wanted me to have. This isn't a particularly unique parental trait. I'm guilty of this one a lot. I excuse mine by claiming it's about "important" stuff and not trivial things like cereal. But maybe I'm fooling myself. Besides, since he was the Dad, and he was paying for it, I guess that was damn well his prerogative. I mean, if I wanted Cookie Crisp, then by God I had an allowance, and I could just sacrifice this month's issue of The New Mutants and buy my own friggin' box of Cookie Crisp.

These memories came to the surface last Sunday morning. I was asked to make my semi-regular Sunday run to Panera for bagels and coffee, and I took everyone's order. Jenni, though, switched from her usual Cinnamon Crunch bagel and spread and asked for one of those breakfast sandwiches. On an Asiago bagel.

Well I'll be damned if I didn't return to the house with a Cinnamon Crunch (not to be confused with Cinnamon Toast Crunch) bagel and spread. No breakfast sandwich.

The sins of the father, indeed.

In hindsight, it's possible he asked me what cereal I wanted because he really wanted to get whatever that was. But then, when he got into the familiar routine of grabbing a buggy and walking those chilly aisles, he just instinctively grabbed the Frosted Flakes.

By the time I was in junior high? Yeah, I think by that point he'd started to be amused at his own force of habit. Not a power play so much as a private practical joke at which only he laughed. And when I stopped caring in high school, it probably saddened him a little.

Truth is, I don't know what he was thinking. About many things, including cereal purchases and Tony the Tiger fetishes. I don't know if there was a secret message in the cereal box decoder ring that said something like "Be sure to drink your Ovaltine."

All I know is that those Frosted Flakes memories feel important, and it was one of the tangible sugar-sweet ways I miss my father.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Father, Son - Peter Gabriel (mp3)
Life Class - W.G. "Snuffy" Walden (mp3)

One of my more enduring memories from childhood is sitting in our living room on Saturday morning and watching Looney Tunes. My father would take a break from working in the yard or from whatever project he was buried under and plop down with a drink in his swivel rocker. I would sit on the floor next to him, and we would watch together.

My father had three different kinds of laughs. He had:

• a social laugh -- "heh heh hehhhh"
• a snicker intended to amuse others -- it was a cross between Mumbly the Hanna-Barbara dog and a duck quack
• and a sincere, deep, belly laugh.

It was that last laugh, the un-self-conscious laugh of someone alone in the den with his young son, that was the most infectious to me. Although Foghorn Leghorn was one of his favorites, it was Daffy Duck that seemed to evoke the most laughter from Dad.

My biological father died just a day after I was born, which, while certainly tragic for my mother and relatives, meant I never really knew what I was missing or had lost. So the man I knew as my father was actually my step-father. He adopted me when I was five. I practically begged him. Not to get all conservative and preachy on anyone, but we all have this aching need for parental figures of both genders in our lives, from childhood on up. And I hungered this man to be in my life. I don't remember asking him to be my father, but I can vaguely remember the sense of emptiness that his presence somehow made go away.

Frank was a grossly imperfect man. He drank too much. He conferred too little. He was a little too antiquated with views on gender and race. But he was also a lifelong example of a man who prioritized humility and championed respect, loyalty and responsibility, and he loved his family -- even his adopted son -- more deeply than he was ever capable of expressing. The only ways he knew were by keeping all of our birthday cards and notes we wrote him tucked away in a file cabinet and other similar, small gestures.

I can't say I ever idolized him. I can't say he's my hero, not in the way many sons think of their fathers. But it's frustrating to me that praising him as simply being a devoted and loving (and imperfect) father isn't good enough. It was more than good enough for me, and a far better option than 99% of the alternatives. I never expected perfection, and he gave far better than I deserved.

It's been just over a year since Dad died. (Cancer. Not a particularly unique story there, although suffering doesn't have to be unique to feel that way.) He lived longer than I ever expected by making it to 74. I honestly had no idea how losing him might affect me. I spent years preparing for the inevitability of his death, but no time accurately contemplating what it would mean.

In 2006, the two of us traveled to Auburn. It was the first time he'd been back to his alma mater in decades. He'd always settled for watching the football games on TV. I can't imagine being much happier about any single decision in my life than I was about arranging for and enjoying that weekend with my father. I go back to that weekend frequently, and it's a sign of our odd biology that recalling such happiness could be so seductive and yet so agonizing.

Dad would definitely snicker that I've struggled more with his passing than I ever thought I would. I'm trying my best to show it in small gestures. The father's way, handed down to the son.

Everytime I watch Looney Tunes and find myself laughing un-self-consciously, I end up crying a little bit, too.

"Father, Son" is from both the Barnyard soundtrack (no kidding) and Gabriel's 2003 compilation Hit. "Life Class" is from the thirtysomething soundtrack. The first can be found at iTunes, the latter I couldn't find anywhere outside my own CD collection.

Men, Part 2: Husbands and Fathers

Hall and Oates--"Family Man" (mp3)
Hall and Oates--"Maneater" (mp3)

In a shameless act of self-promotion, I think my best commentary on this topic is a short story I wrote a few years back. So, I'll offer the opening. If it catches your interest, please read on:

SUPERDADS by Bob Bires

I don’t know who came up with the SuperDad concept, me or Jason. I do know that beers were involved.

The problem was this: each fall, we were part of a Fantasy Football League, you know, the kind where you draft players from all different teams, and you “start” a quarterback, two running backs, three wide receivers, a kicker, and a defense each week, and each of those positions earns you points. There wasn’t big money involved or anything like that. We just wanted to be able to go off on Sundays (and maybe Monday nights) and drink to our hearts’ content at a local sports bar, watching as many games on as many TV’s at the same time as we could. All the forces of the universe oppose this desire.

So one of us said (I usually take full credit for things like this, but not this time), “It’s easy! We become SuperDads.”

We decided that if we were of exemplary character and behavior for the other six days of each week, our wives could not deny us our Sunday lapse. And, we were not going to pretend. That was genius of our plan.

“We have to want to be SuperDads,” one of us said to the other.

“I’m already a good dad,” the other one said.

“Yes, but you’re not a SuperDad. This is going to require a full commitment of body and soul. The body must be willing, and the soul must seek self-actualization. We won’t have to be talked into putting up a swing, we won’t reluctantly agree to Chucky Cheese’s or the park, we’ll be all for it. And then, on Sundays, we get to veg.”

We hoisted our beers to each other and made the pact.

And then, just for clarification, one of us said ominously, “Of course, this also means becoming SuperHubby. That goes with the territory.”

We looked at each other, wondering if we were willing to go through with it. SuperDad helps with homework, swims when he doesn’t want to swim, goes to amusement parks, plays UNO, makes brunch, picks up children at junior high dances, comes up with activities for sleepovers, but SuperHubby? Nothing so tangible. SuperHubby listens to problems that he isn’t allowed to solve, agrees with what he doesn’t believe, attends films when he wants to see movies, offers up tidbits of needless gossip, shrugs off criticism of his parents, ventures beyond the safety of black in evaluating his wife’s clothing choices, even initiates sex in the face of denial. And more.

“Understand, it’s not a concession for freedom,” one of us said to the other. “We have to want to do this. It isn’t a sacrifice. We can’t perceive it as a curbing of a lifestyle. It has to be a change that we want to make, the right thing to do. It will make everyone happier.”

Since we didn’t care much about hockey, basketball, or baseball, we couldn’t predict whether we would remain SuperDads after the Super Bowl. That wasn’t important in the middle of July.

“I’m in,” said our friend, Ricky, who had been given permission to go out with us one night and heard of our plan. Ricky loved Sunday football and he loved going to Ed’s Sports Bar. He was especially amenable to the SuperDad idea because he had made, upon marriage, certain promises that had restricted his extracurricular behavior in the past, but now that discipline gave him an immediate edge up on us. As our sometime-friend Geoff, said about him, “Ricky had to promise not to do a lot of stuff.”

Don’t get me wrong. We weren’t bad dads or negligent husbands. We did our share of family duties, put our families first. I even cooked the meals. But we were men.

The Mecca for our Sunday escape was a place called Ed’s Sports Bar. There were other sports bars in town, but they were pricier. Plus, Ed’s had both excellent chicken wings and superb cheeseburgers. When you’ve worked through too many pitchers and start to get that hollow, dizzy feeling, you want to have something special to look forward to, and Ed’s, not being a chain, prides itself on its food, especially those wings and burgers. Plus, all of waitresses at Ed’s show their midriffs, and usually their belly buttons are pierced.

We conceived of our plan early enough in the summer to have a “SuperDad training camp” during late July and August, in other words, a chance to practice before the Fantasy League draft in early September. Late summer’s usually vacation time for our group, and when we regrouped briefly at the pool one night, all of us had success stories to share from traveling with our families. By that time, another friend, Chas, had come aboard, and while there were others that we could have invited, there was trust—we couldn’t have word getting back to our wives that would misinterpret our plan. Besides, we needed some of our acquaintances to serve as lesser husbands, should we need that comparison.

Vacations were a great success, we found, as we congregated in the water while watching our children go down the slide. Jason bragged of having had sex twice during the same vacation and of his wife saying, “We need to do this more often.” Ricky’s wife declared him forgiven for his drunken escapades at a college reunion in Chapel Hill last April and even suggested that he needed to get out with his safer friends (meaning us) more often. And I, though I didn’t tell this to the others, making up some line about great sex, too, saw in my wife Ronnie’s eyes the looks that we shared with each other eighteen years ago, as though time and children and money and death had never intervened.

For the rest of the story, click the link below.

SUPERDADS,continued

Who knew that Hall and Oates would offer the definitive musical commentary on this topic, available at Itunes.