Essays by DAR

Education of a Sentimental Father

(First published in Child)

Home from the hospital, I was diapering my first-born son Alex for the first time. "I'm so thrilled that you're born!" I kept exclaiming. "That you're ours! That you're here, and healthy, and happy, and --"

My rapture was cut short by a steady stream of warm pee against my forehead.

Sentimentality, as J. D. Salinger once defined it, is loving something more than God loves it. But try telling that to the father of a newborn. There is no end to the doting a new father is capable of. "Did God ever make such a precious little package?" we gush. "Did He ever craft such eyelashes or sculpt such lips?"

The answer, of course, is yes; God cranks 'em out round the clock. But new fathers don't want to hear that. We clot our eyes and ears with adoration. If that's sentimentality, we say, so be it -- no matter how much urine heads our way.

I specify fathers because it seems to me that we're far more prone to sentimentality than mothers. Cliches to the contrary notwithstanding, it's usually male eyes that are tearing at the nursery window. The female eyes are too busy squinting with the pain of the episiotomy. But resolutely unsentimental, are the eyes of the children.

Probably the single biggest impediment to a father's mawkish attempts at expressing his tender side, though, are his kids.

If you doubt me, consider some of the Hallmark moments this father shared with his mercilessly clear-eyed children from infancy on; moments of overarching emotion that were burst with the pinprick of unsentimentality that is the special genius of children.

One afternoon we were driving the family pooch to the vet for the final time. What a sad ride! Old Bess was nearly blind in both eyes, and her two back legs were so arthritic she could barely move herself around. She would not be coming home with us again. I explained to my young sons that like a flower that blooms in summer, then passes away to make room for new flowers, so Bess had lived a long wonderful life and now it looked like it was coming to an end so she could make room in the world for new doggies, for new young puppies all wet-nosed and cuddly ...

There was a silence in the back seat. Then my four-year-old, Marshall, piped up. "Can we watch her die?!!!"

Dealing with a new babysitter was always a tricky business. No matter how nice she seemed to me, there was never any telling whether she would appear strange, intimidating, or frightening to my kids. I used to prepare the children with a speech I hoped would ease the transition for them. "Well, children," I said one time, "we have a new baby-sitter tonight you're going to love, there's no reason to be frightened that we're not here because she's friendly, she's pretty, she's eager to please --"

"Oh good," said six-year old Marshall, "do I get to show her my penis?"

When Marshall turned seven, his ego seemed fragile for a time. I had to take pains to handle it with kid gloves.

"Dad," he said once, tripping tearfully into the living room, "am I a dumb idiot?"

"What do you think you are? That's the important thing."

"A person."

"What kind of a person?"

"An American person."

"What else?"

"A good person who is not a dumb idiot."

"Right! That's what you have to know deep inside your heart, and never forget, so words will never hurt you."

"Good," he says, turning to his big brother. "I told you so, butt-nugget."

Divorce stirred up all kinds of emotions in our household. I wanted to monitor my sons' emotional health to make sure no lasting trauma was being inflicted from such a potentially life-shattering event. All my child-caring skills were tested to the max. I had to be more tactful and gentle and kind than I ever knew I could be, inorder to probe the wounds without appearing to pry.

"How are you doing?" I asked Alex on his tenth birthday. "I mean, don't give me a pat answer, I really want to know, how are you doing?"

"Fine."

"But it must be hard to go back and forth like this, first one parent, then the other, two households, two closets ..."

He took a breath. "Dad?" he said, peering up into my eyes. "Do you think Schwarzenegger does better in comedy or action-adventure?"

And finally there was this, a precious moment when I really had their attention. I knew by then I wouldn't have them forever, but at least as I was dressing twelve-year-old Alex for his first starring role in a school play, I had his total undivided focus. I was tying his tie as I gave him tips for how to go out there and knock 'em dead. He was unusually attentive with a serious expression, scrutinizing me for wisdom, for insight ... until I saw that what he was really doing was using the reflection in my glasses to inspect his hair.