I have a son. There is no greater gift a man can have.
He is 16 years old. I remember 16. It was not easy for me and it has not been a walk in the park for him.
He has been in Utah for the past year and last night he arrived home. I met him at the airport and we came to my home, talked a bit, ate (he has a ferocious appetite, which, in spite of, he is skinny as a rail…a small genetic inheritance from dear ol’ skinny Dad) and then slept.
He was picked up this morning by his mother, who lives down the road and with whom he generally lives. We will spend tomorrow and Monday together and then he is off with his mom for a few days before he goes to a boarding school in Connecticut.
I love him. He loves me. There is no doubt between us of these two facts.
He trusts me. He willingly reveals himself (as best as he can interpret himself) to me…always has…perhaps, he always will. One never knows.
My own father’s influence on me was defined more by his absence in my life than by his presence. I set out, When my son was born, to not have that be the case with his father in his life. So far, so good.
Here’s the storypoint to all this:
A few days before my boy’s arrival home, I become uncomfortable. I wonder about my fitness as a father…as his father. What will we talk about? Will we talk at all? What will we do? How will he greet me? Should I wrap him in my arms? Is he too old for that? Does he think I’m an idiot, yet (he is a teen, after all)? Does he see through my charade?…sense the fatherly fraud in me?
This is a small part of the influence of my own father’s absence on his son. I often suspect that he felt these same things with me…perhaps contributing to his reasons for disappearing (although it isn’t as simple as him just “disappearing”).
During these moments of doubt, I seriously have absolutely no clue how to be a father and no experience with a father of my own to rely on or, at least, imitate. It’s frightening and depressing…and gets more powerful as the time passes and the arrival grows nigh.
It has been this way for the last 14 years. His mother and I were divorced when he was 2. She is very flexible and generous with regard to our contact with each other (my son’s and mine). Every time I would drive to get him for whatever time together we had, these same thoughts and feelings and fears and anxieties would accompany me on my trip.
So here it all is again.
And here’s what happened (and what always has happened)…
I arrive at the baggage claim exit where he is waiting. He sees me. He lights up. He smiles. He gestures to make sure that I see him (which, of course, I have already moments before)…and…suddenly…I am lit up…I am smiling…I am exiting the car as he is hurrying towards me (not the car, but, me) with his bags. We hug just as easy and real as it always has been…load up his luggage and get the hell out of there and begin our conversation right where we left the last one. I am able to make him laugh (a good sign…always) and he makes me smile…and think…and love him.
The only thing that I have come up with as a solution to the anxieties that I mention is to simply …show up. I let all of this internal dialogue go on as long as it wants to (I can’t do anything about it, anyway) and then…I show up…the rest becomes instantly easy.
I think my son knows (and likes) that about me. His Dad will always show up…and there’s a lot to be said for showing up.
LB
www.larryburnett.com