To say I was a reluctant father would be accurate. I have lacked ambition for many things in life, and back in the late 1980s changing a diaper was one of them. I was often quite blunt about it; I boasted to beer buddies that I wanted my headstone to read, “Here lies Ted. Never changed a diaper.” This was true. I never wanted to be arrested and I never wanted to change a diaper. Those were my two keys for successful living.
One long distance phone call changed all that, or at least tipped me off that change was on the way. I was in New Zealand at the time, teaching a business class during a month-long jaunt that waterbugged me up, down, and all around one of my world’s most favorite places. I love New Zealand and must confess that I’d returned back to my hotel room beer-nourished. My wife was on the other end of the line. She broke the news she was pregnant. I thought and hoped she was kidding.
She wasn’t. But I was a bit preoccupied with a life of chest-beating and materialistic pursuits and was not happy to hear the news. Kids were what other people had; annoying little mess machines that checkmated couples into a prison of perpetual tedium. Freedom swamps. Traps that made people fat and boring. Prisoners in a Turkish prison, all walking in the same direction like drug smuggler Brad Davis in Midnight Express.
I’d rather rupture a spleen.
But the clock was on, the incubation underway, and I was an ever-expanding grouch for the next nine months. My wife got bigger and bigger. And then even bigger. She was way overdue; her body looked a spawning cod. It was July in suburban D. C., about 200 degrees and 150% humidity.
Enough is enough, she decides. We go to the movies to see an action film, Lethal Weapon 2, with Mel Gibson and Danny Glover reprising their roles as Riggs and Murtaugh. Joe Pesci’s in it and he cusses a lot, which my wife and I were starting to do too, for totally different reasons.
After the movie we walked 37 miles of air-conditioned laps throughout the shopping mall at Tyson’s Corner. Gibson, Glover, Pesci and the mall teamed to do the trick. The next morning her water broke and by three in the afternoon I was a father. I didn’t want to be a father but had come to the reluctant conclusion that a son would be the lesser of two evils. If he drank his milk he’d quickly grow strong enough to pull weeds.
The birthing process was bigger, more dramatic than puppies. My wife got an epidural to numb the pain. Although I liked watching her in some distress, too much was well, too much. It was also obvious the Lamaze how-to-breathe class was a stupid waste. Whoever invented that nonsense is my hero. He or she made a big, fat living teaching Americans how to breathe.
We did not know the sex of our child ahead of time. I never wanted to know; parenthood is the only thing in life that adds a dimension–the rest of life is just stuff–and the sex of a child is life’s most spectacular surprise. To this day I feel sorry for people who find out ahead of time. They just don’t get it; they probably like gift cards at Christmas, too.
The birth was messy, really messy, and I couldn’t believe what was pouring out of my wife. I had done a lot of shark fishing for giants and remember watching that torrent of indescribable goo and thinking, “This is like Jaws, where they hang the tiger shark upside down and everything spills out, even the Louisiana license plate.”
I was prattling on about son-related things when the doctor sorted through the debris and located a baby. He cradled her, looked at me, and said simply, “Lace is expensive.”
I didn’t like that. “No son of mine,” I’m thinking,”is wearing lace.”
“It’s a girl,” chimes in the nurse.
“Oh,” I’m thinking, “in that case I guess lace is okay.” I also wonder how expensive it really is.
Today is the 21st anniversary of that hot summer day, and Gracie remains our lone and only child. She’s a bit taller than she used to be, and a lot more fussy about her appearance. She was an excellent all-around athlete throughout junior high and high school but now just runs and swims to stay fit. She enters her senior year of college this fall.
Gracie flew home from Tallahassee to be with us for her birthday, which was a very nice surprise. I guess she made that decision influenced by her mother’s gene pool. I’d be lost in Las Vegas, sweating with a torn and dirty shirt, looking for Mike Tyson.
For all the things I didn’t want out of life but suddenly had thrust upon me, she has been the greatest gift of all. I didn’t change a lot of diapers–only 235 according to the stick-mark Diaper Diary I meticulously tracked (like a prisoner counting days) on an index card affixed to the refrigerator–and I traveled way too much for work until all too soon she turned ten.
But then I walked away from too much corporate consumption and turned to face the greatest challenge of all: caving in and becoming a real, true dad. I’ve tried hard ever since and think I made it. She’s daddy’s little angel, and knows it.
As I wrap this up I can’t help but think of the wonderful song lyric written by Lerner and Lowe, made famous by Maurice Chevalier during the opening and closing of the 1958 film Gigi.
“Thank heaven,” he sings softly, “for little girls.”
jeanne shober says
July 9, 2010 at 12:57 pmTeddy,
This is a beautiful tribute to your daughter. Beautifully written. Enjoy your weekend with Gracie.
Give Bonnie my best.
Jeanne Shober
Ocean Palmer says
July 9, 2010 at 6:21 pmThanks, Jeanne. I appreciate you taking the time to write. ~ T