When my wife and I found out we were going to be parents for a second time around we were extremely thrilled. We were also taken completely by surprise. With our first child, we had a fairly difficult time getting pregnant. We were like the stereotypical sitcom couple desperately trying to have a baby. We checked dates, charted cycles, counted days, tracked temperatures by the hour, etc. We spent hours upon hours reading books, watching videos and researching online the latest tips, tricks and handstand techniques to help us conceive. We even sought treatment from an acupuncturist who poked both of us full of holes and had us drinking different herbal concoctions. When that didn’t work, we finally went to a fertility clinic where they had my wife hopped on various hormonal treatments. Let’s just say that such hormonal treatments can definitely affect one’s mood and we’ll leave the rest to your imagination or own personal experience. Thankfully, we were finally successful after six cycles. So we thought that if we wanted to have another child, we would have to follow the same rigorous Cirque du Fertili-tay routine as before. This time around however, it was as easy and natural as can be.

Knowing what I now know about the joys of fatherhood and the unimaginable love I have for my son, I was really looking forward to baby numero deux. We were still somewhat in a state of disbelief about my wife’s pregnancy until we saw our baby’s tiny beating heart for the first time in an ultrasound. I imagined what it would be like to have another boy, especially if he was as rambunctious as my first. The two of them running through the house, me chasing them, me making a mess, me breaking something, then me blaming the boys when their mom got home. Or perhaps this time it would be a girl. I thought about the relationship my sister and dad have, and also about the special bond my wife has with her father. It’s truly wonderful to see how much my dad and my father-in-law love and cherish their daughters. But as my wife neared the end of her first trimester, something wasn’t quite right. It didn’t seem like there was anything seriously wrong, just something different than what she experienced during her first pregnancy. She already had an appointment scheduled with her doctor the following week, but decided to reschedule it for the next day. I was at work when she called me from her doctor’s office. My wife didn’t have to say a word as her sobbing over the phone was enough. As sad as we may be, we know that it would have been much harder and more painful had this happened later in my wife’s pregnancy. We hope to have another child and at least we now know that we can get pregnant without the needles, acrobatic routines or ultra-mega-dose hormonal treatments from before. 

Recently, my wife (Jane) went out for a walk with her sister-in-law (let’s call her Sarah). Our son (4) and Sarah’s son (3) came along on their bikes. Sarah’s son had a helmet on, and when Sarah offered a spare helmet to Jane for our boy, Jane politely declined. To Jane, it was no big deal - Junior was staying close to Jane, and has training wheels on his bike. I mean, come on, how badly hurt could he really get if he did fall?

Well, this led to a heated discussion as Sarah was absolutely appalled at Jane’s decision. In Sarah’s mind, if there is some sort of safety feature that you can take advantage of, you are negligent if you don’t use it. Now in Sarah’s defense, her boy has some undiagnosed physical issues that result in him falling more than the average kid, resulting in the occasional need for stitches. But even though Jane deferred to Sarah (in the name of Christian testimony and humility), I still felt like going helmetless is no big deal for a little tot on a training wheels bike.

In the end, I believe that it’s simply a matter of risk-taking. Some parents draw the line closer to over-protective, while others draw the line closer to over-permissive. Take Sarah: she insists on a helmet for her bike-riding son, but why does she not put a helmet on him indoors, where he has fallen countless times? It’s because of where she has that line drawn in her mind as to what constitutes an appropriate measure of risk-taking. For me, maybe I draw the line out a little farther for my kids than Sarah would. Others would perhaps be even more cautious than Sarah.

Where do you dads fall in the protective-permissive scale?

Our first son was born premature.  He was not growing properly and the doctors believed it would be better for him to be born where he could get the nutrients he needed.

A week before he was born my wife went on bed rest, and we were supposed to count how many times he kicked in an hour.  We were basically doing this to make sure he was still alive.  About three weeks before his due date, the doctors performed an emergency c-section and he was rushed to intensive care where I watched them poke, prod and hook all kinds of sensors to his little four pound body. 

My son’s first day on earth was one of the scariest times of my life, and I began to wonder if I was strong enough to be a parent.  The thought of my little wonder being in pain or something happening to him was a thought I could not and still cannot bear.  Thankfully he recovered from this rough start and is a happy, healthy, four year old, but any time either of my boys experiences any type of pain, it makes me ask myself, “Can I do this?”

We have now entered into another realm of pain.  The emotional kind.  It seems to be worse than any physical pain.

This summer Seth made what would be his first true best friend, and they spent all summer together.  Lately, though, Seth’s new friend (we will call him Sam) hasn’t been very friendly.  This weekend we had the following conversation:

Me - Seth, are you ready for soccer season?
Seth - Am I going to be on Coach Gary’s team?
Me - No, he isn’t coaching this year but guess who is on your team! Sam!
Seth - Maybe Sam will be my friend since he’s on my team.
Me - Sam is your friend.
Seth - He doesn’t want to be my friend.  He doesn’t act friendly when I go to his church.  I think he doesn’t want me there.  He didn’t say so but that’s just what I think.

My heart broke listening to my little boy talk about how somebody may or may not like him.  I found myself dreading when the first girl breaks his heart or he loses someone close to him.  The physical pain is easier because the ramifications are clearer to see.  With emotional pain, you have no idea how it is really affecting him.

I again found myself asking “Can I do this?”

Each time I’ve posed that question, the answer is the same:  Yes, I can.  My son needs me. 

But the funny thing is that, while he does need me, it is not nearly as much as I need him, and I would give anything for him to never be hurt.

I remember playing as a boy; rules were conditional, and a matter of convenience. There was no laser so powerful that my force-field couldn’t stop it, no tag so forceful that I couldn’t feel it, no sword-stroke so nimble that I couldn’t dodge it. And vice versa. I have a confession: I have never played a game with my son. This is not for lack of trying. But Ian’s games are complex and arbitrary, and designed to make you lose.

Take tic-tac-toe, for example. Perhaps the simplest game ever created, as long as you can count to three. ‘Here’s how you play,’ as he stays my hand, pencil hovering above the center square. ‘You can’t start there. You have to go here,’ and he points to the bottom-left corner. I oblige, and he takes his turn. Twice. ‘Ian,’ I place my hand on his, ‘it’s my turn.’

‘No, you went first.’

‘Yes, and then you had a turn. See? Two Xs. Now it’s my turn.’ I place my O, and nod to him. He places an O next to his X. ‘Ian, you’re X. I’m O.’

‘That was just for the first turn. Now we switch!’

But at least we were able to start that game. Ian’s impromptu flights of imagination are harder to catch. His world is fully regulated, documented, and signed in triplicate. You cannot enter unless you’ve read the rulebook, which has yet to be published for all its revisions. He analyzes and tweaks and draws his boundaries with a straight-edge ruler. He has a very large eraser.

And while he explains the intricacies of Star Wars Tag, the sun sinks rapidly in the west. There’s a chapter in Red Dwarf during which Arnold Rimmer spends three months preparing and revising a study timetable for his astronavigation exam, yet never actually studies. On the day of the exam, he slams a sweaty, ink-stained palm print on the paper, signs it, and faints. I sense a disturbing similarity.

Yet I can understand why Ian loves making rules: he never gets to. He’s told, but does not tell. And what else should a four-year-old do if given the chance to not only make the rules, but to make others follow them?

Does the IRS accept advance applications?

In a previous post I discussed my attempt last November to climb a mountain in Colorado with my then 12-year old son.  The mountain was one of the 54 “14’ers” in Colorado that exceed 14,000 feet in elevation.  The short version of that story is that I didn’t make it to the top, but that my 12 year -old son did.  I was happy for him - proud even.  But there was a feeling of disappointment that I couldn’t be with him as he summited the mountain.

Fast forward to this past Labor Day weekend.  My son, who turned 13 on August 2, has now summited two 14er’s and wanted to bag his third.  We head out to Gray’s Peak about 50 miles west of Denver.  We camp at the trailhead the night before so that we can get a good start the next morning.  As we start out on the trail the next morning, I immediately feel the effects of the thin air.  My son waits for me patiently as I catch my breath.  A few hundred yards later - same thing.  My son patiently waits for me.  Between my desperate attempts to suck in some oxygen, I notice he hasn’t even broken a sweat.  This continues for about three miles.  As we reach the base of the mountain in earnest and begin the steep ascent, my son finally loses his patience.  By this time I’m walking about 20 yards each time before I have to stop.  He asks if he can go up on his own.  Realizing that I’m holding him back, I reluctantly agree.

As he walked off I had an empty feeling in my stomach.  Again, I was proud of him for his determination and independence, but it was obvious that I would never keep up with him when it came to climbing mountains.  At age 45, I would only get older; at age 13, he would only get stronger.

Unlike my earlier post, I don’t have a laundry list of lessons learned from my time with my son.  My experience simply reinforced the notion that his future lies before him as he gains his independence and depends on me less.  Perhaps this is one of those moments when the door opens and lets his future in.

Oh, I almost forgot.  I did eventually make it to the top after 4 1/2 hours of climbing, making Gray’s Peak my very first 14er.  I didn’t see my son, however.  By the time I made it to the top, he had already summited that mountain and had gone on to Torrey’s Peak next door.  He scaled that 14er also, doubling his lifetime count in one day.  Whatever the future may hold for my son, he goes forth with my blessing.  My hope is that no matter what mountain he runs into, he tackles it with the same determination and spirit I witnessed that day.