December 24, 2012, The Man from Bedford Falls 66 years Later

It’s Christmas Eve, which, for me, signifies 24 hours of looped showings of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” a character biopic about the progressing struggles of one George Bailey, a man who battles the often conflicting social expectations of, first, manhood, then husbandhood and, finally, familyhood.  George is idealized as the exceptional man of his early 20th century era, reluctantly muffling his desire to run away from his town, find adventure and build a personal fortune, in order to, instead, humbly dedicate his life to serving his family and community.

I like that George made it to Christmas morning.  I also continue to tear up at his renewed appreciation of Bedford Falls.  But, let’s be clear, George is tortured for most of this movie.  The psychological gnawing that Jimmy Stewart displays on his face is, at times, unbearable.  Exceptional man or not, Hollywood’s conjured guardian angel, Clarence, was the only thing that prevented George from seeking the various forms of escape that many of the real 20- and 30-somethings in his 1940s position felt forced to choose.  The real Mr. Baileys of the past and modern times have always been a difficult lot to come by.

But it’s really not the what of George’s idealization as much as the how that spurs on my own present day gnawing ego.  It’s the movie’s not-so-subtle suggestion that the way a man continues to demonstrate such dedication to his family and his community is to work his ass off for them outside of the home, at a desk, in a field or on the factory floor, returning home late each night well after the whole household has been slumbering soundly.  Just as the George Baileys of their day raged internal wars spurred by social expectations, the same issues arise today when a man takes on a role in life that attempts to defy, ignore or simply alter the stereotypical expectations of his gender.

Well, I shouldn’t speak in generalities.  I have spent the last 12 years of my life working with my wife, Jessica, to shape and embrace a role within my family that eschews the expectations of my gender or social environment.  In that time we have fallen fairly nicely into who owns the cooking, the cleaning, the budgeting, the bread winning, the bread buying and the taking out of the trash.  And as our baby boy advanced closer and closer to the day that he would emerge from my wife’s warm watery womb, our continued conversation made it increasingly clear that I would embrace the majority role in the rearing, protecting and caretaking of our young children during normal work-day hours, while Jess earned the cash.

My new position felt right to me.  I swallowed it whole.  It was not the outcome of professional incompetence or a failed job search, but the product of an ongoing reflective dialogue.  So Jess and I had no fear of hidden resentment between us.  But I would be deluding myself if I failed to acknowledge that, during this last year, I have sometimes felt as if I am less of a man in the eyes of those around me based on this decision.  I’m quite sure a therapist would suggest that I am projecting my own sense of inadequacy onto others, and I would grant that thought more than a little merit.  But while the ghost of George Bailey, floating into my life every Christmas holiday, reminds me of the joy and importance of family and community connectedness, I can’t help feeling as if he is also telling me that my commitment to my family should be of the paid variety, in an office from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. during the work week, rather than sitting, standing and running next to my kid.

But it is here where the cold refreshing water of reality douses any modern-day delusion that a 12-hour workday outside of my home would be the best way for me to contribute to my family….because I sometimes dream of those 12 hours.  I sometimes dream of coming home to a quiet house with a sleeping child that someone else put to bed because I know the varying and unpredictable drain that this seemingly simple act can cause.  I sometimes dream of work that is based upon an implicit understanding of complex social verbal and non-verbal cues because Will doesn’t get the layered nuances of “I just want to poop by myself, son.”  And because more often then just sometimes, I know that I am pretty good at what I do during the daylight hours of my Monday through Friday…even if I’m in my underwear half the time.

Tomorrow

A year ago, on this day and at this hour, I contemplated going to bed.  My lovely, and very expecting, wife and I had just returned from a holiday performance at Davies Symphony Hall.  I wandered around our small home, peering at a well cooked in kitchen, filled with dirty dishes, a well lived in living room, filled with unopened boxes and a well rested in bedroom, filled with dirty clothes, papers and unfamiliar baby things.  I thought to myself: "Tomorrow is another day.  I'll clean up then. We have to start getting ready for this baby. He's only two and a half weeks away."  When my head hit the pillow I was not aware that my understanding of time, love, sleep and work were about to become vague relics.

Three hours later, I woke to the sight of my lovely wife, standing in the middle of the bedroom, stone-faced and shaky, with a towel between her legs and some comments to share with me.  Thirty hours after that I finally fell asleep again in the make-shift sleeper of a post-natal recovery room, my hand draped over the plastic bassinet that housed my swaddled and sleeping 4-hour old son and my droopy eyes fixed on my brave and tenacious wife asleep in the bed beside us.

Be it a new child, a late night phone call, an unexpected package, a tragic loss or a serendipitous bump into your future love on that morning walk to coffee, know this: your eyes could open to an unimaginably new paradigm tomorrow.  

So, depending on the context in which you find yourself,  love 'em, cook 'em, drink 'em, smoke 'em, hug 'em, kiss 'em and fuck 'em if you got 'em because tomorrow is most assuredly another day.

From Grandpa Bill to Baby Will

My grandpa died on a Thursday.  It was over a year ago.  I saw him die.  Holding his hand, I watched as his consciousness of this tangible world ceased, leaving a rigid shell behind.  And then I felt nothing.   I felt no further reason to care for what was in front of me.  THAT was not my grandfather.  In the movies, the lead kisses the cold dead lips of his tragically taken love and we weep because he does, making us feel his pain.  But in the stinky reality of life, death takes hold of a driverless body quickly, spilling juices and rusting up the axles with uncaring efficiency.

But an infinite chasm stands between how a felt about Grandpa Bill’s lifeless body and how I continue to feel about the man today.  I loved my grandpa.  Of course I did.  We are supposed to love our family.  We are bred to, conditioned to, maybe even programmed to.  But I also respected the man, and no one is forced to respect another person, programmed, bred or otherwise.  Respect comes from an individualized observation of character.  It is a personal judgment, not a feeling.  It is, and will always be, an unfettered act of free will.  I love a great many people in my life, I respect a handful.

I respected the man because he lived his life with neither pomp nor apology, setting an example that I have tried to follow.  He never told me that he loved me, but he wrote it in a letter once.  I whisper it to my 11-month old son roughly twenty times a day.  He doesn’t understand the words, but, still, they are not meant for anyone else to hear.  I chalk up these differing methods of protectively communicating our love to the cultural boundaries of generations.  In our own ways, though, both my grandfather and I have truly wanted the people we love to hear it said so in a voice meant only for them.

He was known as a father by all of those I ever met during our overlapping years of consciousness.  Professionally he was a soldier, a ski patrolman, a supplier of lumber and a reluctant, yet implicitly-compelled realtor.  But I knew him as a surfer, a skier, a speedboat driver, a carpenter, a house builder, a handyman and a mechanic.

This blog is a tribute to good fathers like my Grandpa Bill, a raw pledge of endless commitment to my son, William, and a therapeutic catharsis for me.  But, more than that, it is an unapologetic call for fathers to declare themselves parents, gnarly, fucked-up warts and all.  And to that end, I mean to make this a raw window into my life as a stay-at-home dad.