Fathers & Sons, part 1

While emptying my inbox of old messages, I came across a duet of e-mails sent to my family over a year ago. Instead of deleting them into the ether, I'd rather expose them for everyone to see on this "canon of nothingness" my blog had become. Humor me.

* * * * *

It's all over.

I've given up, thrown my sword in the dirt, unshackled my chest armor and tossed my shield aside. The battle has been fought, the war won, my enemy the victor.

This white flag is currently being waved standing in the audiobook aisle of a Barnes & Noble bookstore. There I was: pen in one hand, scrap of paper in the other, jotting down audiobook titles I'd be interested in checking out. Not from this bookstore mind you, but from the library. I was also squinting. Perhaps I was standing too far away from the titles, perhaps I need glasses. Either way, it is clear... I have become my dad.

This is who I am:
1) I am too busy to read books anymore.
2) I am so scared of forgetting my thoughts that I resort to carrying around strips of paper with scribbles all over them.
3) I am unable to see the words in front of me.
4) I am more interested in travelogues on Yellowstone National Park than I am in some super-slick murder mystery.

This is who I used to be:
1) I was able to read one book every six days.
2) I used to scoff at audiobooks.
3) I used to shop at ultra-hip independent bookstores where everyone has Buddy Holly eyeglasses and tattoos of Hemingway on their forearm
4) I used to be a rock'n'roller wearing band shirts and Sauconys.

Standing in the bookstore wearing khakis and a sweater pulled over a light blue collared shirt, I realize now I am no longer who I used to be. There is no Adam, there is only Adam's dad. Like George Foreman after he got socked by Muhammad Ali.

It's enough to make me puke pure sadness.

I should cover my bases. Adam's dad is a wonderful man. There really isn't anything of him I can drag through the mud. But Adam's dad is 55-years-old. He's got 30 years on me. 30 years of rock'n'roll concerts and drug experimentation and civil rights movements and Americans dancing around on the moon and eight Celtics championships in a row and a national fascination with long-distance phonecalls.

Being him 30 years from now won't bother me. Being 25 now and checking out non-fiction audiobooks instead of the nudie magazines, does bother me.

Even Adam's dad wasn't really Adam's dad until he was, say 39 or 40-years-old. Shouldn't I get to be Adam a little longer before I morph into my dad? It's just not fair is all I'm saying. I remember a time where Dad wore cut-off jeanshorts* and raced to record stores to get a copy of a aclassic album the day it was released. I was alive for that. I remember that, which means he'd had a kid before the Adam's dad of yesteryear turned into the Adam's dad of today.

I don't have a kid. It's not my time to be my dad yet.

Except that I do have a kid. And if any of you are shocked by that, I hope you believe that I join you in your surprise. Maybe one day you'll meet him, but I doubt it. You see, I'm planning on running away and never seeing my child ever again once next summer rolls around.

You may judge me harshly, but you shouldn't. You see, my kid is 20-years-old and he is autistic. I guess that information is more confusing than clarifying. I didn't even know I had a kid until roughly a week ago and even now, standing in the bookstore wishing I had a pair of spectacles, I remain overwhelmed by it all.

* * * * *

One can never truly know what goes into being a good parent until they are called upon to try it out. Even then, some fail at the task. But the farther along in life you go without a child, the clearer an idea you have of what it's going to take to raise a good one. A few months ago, I had four visions of what a good parent does.
The first vision was a classic Rockwellian display of fatherhood. Playing catch with my boy during the summer or shooting a game of hoops in between homework and dinner. ** My second vision was of tough-love. The "no-T.V.-this-weekend-as-punshment" days, the "no-dessert-until-you-finish-your-liver-and-onions" clause (that clause should hold up real well considering Daddy won't be eating liver and onions either), or the "as-long-as-you-never-let-me-forget-your-mother's-birthday-I-swear-I'll-let-youmove-away-for-college" agreement.
My third vision is of influence. Who my child (read: boy) will grow up to be. How much he'll love Springsteen and baseball and how much I'll teach him to despise U2 for no other reason than his aunt (my sister) loves them...
I can't wait for my third vision. That one makes me smile just thinking about it.
My fourth vision is of community. My wife. The child's teachers. Coaches. Friends. Parole officers. Whoever plays an important role in the life of my boy. My son. My heir.

You all might be worried about my not having a boy, being "stuck" fathering a precious bundle of pink girlyness.
First of all, I'm like a ninja; like a puma in a tree constantly adapting and surviving. I can survive anything - even a baby girl.
And anyway, it's all moot, 'fore you have already forgotten one important news item: I am already a father to a 20-year-old autistic boy. The gender issue is all settled.

And wait 'till you hear how my four visions have already come true.



To be continued Thursday November 16, 2006....

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* Believe it or not, cut-off jean shorts were once acceptable to wear. Not now though. Now, it's just gross.

** If tragedy strikes and I have a little girl instead of a boy, she and I will spend the bulk of her childhood staring confusedly at one another until Mommy comes home to deal with us. Daddy's gonna defer to Mommy a lot if we have a girl.