When you tell someone your name, they generally don’t care why your parents named you ‘Moon Unit’. But if you tell someone you’re only going to have one child, you’d better have a reason. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find one that works.
Despite my selfish impatience, I like to think that at such times, the father who I would become, am becomming, was speaking to me.
I so want to be the perfect father. I want to be a source of strength and wisdom for my son; I want to show him unfailing love and generosity; I want him to be able to depend on me, and trust me, and know how important he is to me.
Before Ian was born, I started writing to him in a journal. This journal now sits at the bottom of a bookcase, with two or three entries. The amount of effort I’ve put into writing about my son is woefully disproportionate to how important Ian is in my life.
Kelly said she tried to put Ian to bed three times. As they got nearer to his room, Ian started to cry and shake his head. “No! No!”
I’d been looking forward to the time alone, and the chance to take care of some really important things. Movies. Video games. Sleeping late. Having a car. It was a bit like my junior year in high school.
‘…the white-suited doctor was replaced by a black-suited doctor, who wrestled, tumbled and noogied the chimp into exhaustion.’
My mother has a photo of my step-father and me, underwear on our heads, pretending to be deep-sea divers hunting sharks.