Never Knew My Dad

Two year-olds are an absurd medley of human traits; a real test kitchen of dispositions. Sweet, inquisitive, illogical, and mean. They’re like a sun shower during an earthquake. Everything, everywhere all at once. 

As my son navigates the delicate balance between his burgeoning self and his reliance on his parents, he’ll sometimes take after Mitch McConnell and the Senate Republicans circa 2008 where Mitch said, “Whatever Obama is for, we are against.” 

Whatever dad says, disagree with him.

If Zayn falls when we’re playing, I’ll ask him if he needs help and he’ll yell, “No, just play!” (as he whimpers and limps away).

Zayn, you need to hold the handle bars with both hands. It will help you balance. No, one hand.

Zayn, we have to look both ways when we cross the street. No we don’t!

Ok Zayn, we’ll play one more and then take a bath. No, six more. 

I'm trying to make your life easier, Zayn. No, harder.

On the flip side, when he wants me to do something, it's not for my well being.

Dad, play trucks. After I eat breakfast. No, don’t eat breakfast! Yes, I need to eat breakfast. I’m hungry. No, you’re not hungry!

When Zayn is at his most defiant, he doesn’t just act like I don’t know shit, he acts like I can’t possibly know shit. My entire 45 years of life experience cast aside as insignificant in the matter at hand.

It’s hilarious and maddening all at once.

And it’s not like he’s bringing some A-game of independence to back up his brazenness. After 2.5 years he is only now becoming self-sufficient, unprompted, in some basic things that don’t include his own enjoyment. I actually saw him throw away a piece of garbage the other day. His first entry in the “helping hand” column after running an incredible 1,000-day tally as a unilateral resource consumer. 

Side note: He is finally offering to share things from time to time. To be fair, the first things were his vitamins and vegetables he didn’t want, but it’s even moved into sharing his breakfast smoothie. Sacre Bleu!

And through it all, we still love our kids and want them to thrive. We don’t let them go outside barefoot in their PJ’s while it’s snowing. We deal with every tantrum, we play the same game one hundred times, we risk permanent back injury lowering them into the tub. Every first, every owie, every cold. Every kick to the chest at diaper change, every “I’m not tired,” every repeated drop of a yogurt covered spoon on the kitchen floor.

Obviously, it’s not always climbing an MC Escher stairwell. The good days are a’plenty, and Zayn regularly does things that melt my heart. He’s bilingual for goodness sake, teaching me Spanish words. But when I’m frayed and at my wits end, I sometimes want him to appreciate me. Like, don’t you see how much your mom and I are doing for you? (I know, it’s pathetic.) 

Because as adorable as it is, my son’s use of the words “Thank you” and “I love you” is just mirroring what we tell him, like when I tell the gate agent “You too” after they say “Have a good flight.”

Sure, it’s good practice, but kids have no idea what love is in relation to the love their parents have for them. They can’t know.

Think about it. When’s your first real memory? Not some family retelling of a story of you as an infant that you have created some fake memory about, I’m talking a real memory. 4? 5 years old? And that’s still some fuzzy snapshot of a jacket, a room, a moment. 

Now think about all the stuff your parents did for you up to that point and the countless memories they have of you during that time. They know you intimately. They kept your diaper-filled ass alive everyday. 

And for you, all of those years boil down to a toy, or Santa’s lap at the mall. You have no memory of the insanity that spewed out of your mouth on the daily.

I joked with a buddy of mine who also has a two-year old son, “If I died today, Zayn would tell people later in life, ‘I never knew my dad.’” 

Full stop. 

1,000+ days of unconditional love equating to a conscious nothing. 

I’m not complaining. I love being a dad. And Zayn is not supposed to know the burden and responsibility that his mom and I carry every day for thousands of days that he won’t even remember. 

Zayn needs me, he doesn’t love me. 

Love is a parent’s job. I finally understand what my dad meant when he told me, “A parent who needs their child’s love is a failure as a parent. Your job isn’t to get your child to love you unconditionally, your job is to get your child to love their child unconditionally. Love flows down hill.”

Amen. What a ride it is down the mountain.