Familyhood Read online

  His face starts to show emotion for the first time.

  “I was scared,” he acknowledges.

  “Of what?”

  “I didn’t know what you were going to do.”

  Among the many things I felt at the moment was oddly tickled that he still even had the capacity to worry about what his father thinks. I thought he had moved past that.

  “Okay,” I say. “Well, what did you think I was going to do?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “Okay—well here’s the rule now,” I say, deciding it’s time to be more clear, more firm. “You are not to take my phone without asking me first. And if I ever do, sometime in the future, give you permission to use it, you have to put it back where you found it when you’re done. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  And he looks like he feels really bad.

  Which makes me feel good, which in turn makes me feel terrible. I kneel down so we are eye to eye again.

  “Look,” I say. “I know that was hard to admit, and I’m really proud of you for telling me the truth.” (Never mind that it was only after I cornered him with unbeatable evidence; he still came clean. That’s got to count for something.)

  “That’s not always easy, ” I acknowledge, “but honesty is always the best way to go in the end, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He mumbles, still looking down, wishing this was over.

  “Okay?” I ask.

  “Okay,” he answers, looking up and mustering a little relieved smile.

  We hug, and he heads out. My work in this town is done.

  He’s not two steps away, ready to enjoy his freedom, when my little guy turns back and, in the most casual voice possible, tosses out, “Oh, and you remember that thing with the car door?”

  I pretend I don’t. It’s been so long I almost did forget, but beyond that, I had committed to the lie of not knowing.

  “What car door?” I ask—another horrible acting performance.

  “You don’t remember?” he says. “The little dent on your door you were upset about, and you didn’t know how it happened . . . ?”

  “Oh yes, yes, of course. Yeah, that was weird. What about it?”

  “I did that.”

  “You did that?” I say, conveying what I think is just the right balance of disappointment tempered with a sense of “I must have heard wrong.”

  “By accident,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

  Very sincere, very honest. All I wanted from the beginning. I take him in another big hug, and thank him for his honesty. And remind him that coming clean is never easy—and that I am really proud of him.

  I then ask him—only half-joking—if there was anything else I should know, as long as the gates are open and the judge is in a forgiving mood.

  “No,” he chuckles. “That’s everything.”

  He is happy. And relieved. And I am happy. Feeling very complete. Glad that—at least as far as my young son is concerned—all acts of thuggery and mayhem are accounted for.

  THE NEXT MORNING, he mentions he might be responsible for the sinking of a Japanese fishing vessel off North Korea a few months back. His mother claims to know nothing about it.

  Congratulations

  I was watching a basketball game with my kids. Lakers against somebody.

  Now, watching by myself I might pay attention, I might not. But with my kids there, I’m more alert; I like to see what they know, what they take in, and to a ridiculous degree, I’m always on the lookout for any “teachable moments” that may present themselves. Any windows for discussion that I can use to broaden my children’s horizons, and in so doing, transform a perfectly nice, relaxing activity into a source of tedium and displeasure for them. (It’s just who I am.)

  So we’re watching the game. A guy gets fouled, goes to the line to shoot two free throws, the first of which he misses. By a lot. A remarkably ugly brick of a shot. And, as has become the custom in professional basketball, his teammates immediately congratulate him. Vigorously. Each of the other four guys on the floor leans across their opponents to cascade their pal—who just missed the easiest shot there is in the sport—in a sea of knuckle bumps, butt pats, shoulder slaps, and heartfelt encouragement. This always strikes me as wrong.

  “You see that?” I ask the boys.

  “What?”

  “That. Guy misses, but everyone congratulates him anyway.”

  “Hmm,” says my little guy, barely looking up from his Game Boy. (I had a feeling he wasn’t really watching the game.)

  I press on undeterred.

  “It’s kinda funny, though—don’t you think? They ‘high five’ him whether he hits it or misses.”

  “It’s nice,” says my older boy, always quick to identify the niceties of the world. “They’re making him feel better.”

  “Yeah—it’s good sportsmanship,” his little brother chimes in, happy to take up any side of an argument that’s contrary to whatever point his father is trying to make.

  “You know, I guess it is,” I concede.

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.

  “But do you notice,” I persist, “that two seconds later they’re all shoving and elbowing and trash-talking? So I’m not sure if it’s really good sportsmanship or—”

  “Shhh—we’re watching,” they announce in unison.

  I’m amused by their unified front and alleged commitment to the game, which I happen to know neither of them cares about. One is watching only because the Laker Girls come out every so often and jump around in very tight shorts, and the other one is watching because even if it’s not what he wants to watch, it’s still TV, which is better than doing homework.

  A few minutes later—same thing. Another guy goes to the foul line, shoots, and misses. Same thing happens; his teammates are all over him. Fist bumps, chest thumps . . . One guy who was already halfway down the court trots all the way over to offer his condolences and earnest words of support.

  You can never quite hear what they’re saying, but I imagine it’s like the relatives on Family Feud when one of their elected loved ones blurts out the dumbest answer ever.

  “Name something you might find in your wallet.”

  “Um . . . a parakeet?”

  And they all start clapping and yelling. “Good answer! Way to go! I was going to say ‘parakeet’ myself. Woooo!”

  I maintain that despite the seemingly sincere enthusiasm, somewhere deep inside they’ve got to be thinking, “A parakeet? Are you kidding me?! How could there be a parakeet in your wallet!?”

  But so great is our need to whoop and holler—or deny that someone just stunk up the joint—that we applaud everything, however undeserving.

  As I sit there with my boys, I try to figure out exactly why this national propensity to over-celebrate bothers me and—as far as I can tell—no one else.

  I’m certainly all for celebrating and positive reinforcement. Ask my boys; they’ll probably tell you I do it too much. (“Great handwriting there, buddy. I really like that capital S.”)

  As far as sports go, I would say I’m not only pro-cheering, I’m anti-booing. In kids’ sports, obviously, but even at the professional level. I’ve told my boys I don’t ever want to see them boo anyone for missing a shot, striking out, slipping on the ice and getting his head stuck in the net—any public failure. My guess is the guy already feels bad enough, and public derision probably isn’t going to help him do better next time anyway.

  Only under certain circumstances would I condone booing. In response to an egregious display of unsportsmanlike conduct, I could see it. Throwing a bat at an opposing player. Kicking over a pommel horse because you muffed the dismount. Or, upon losing a match at Wimbledon, shoving a racket up the ass of a linesman. These are uncalled for, and deserve some solid booing.

  Otherwise, I say celebrate; I’m just saying celebrate within reason. And with appropriate cause. Celebrate greatness, not mediocrity. Don’t stop the action to co
mmemorate routine achievement. If an insurance salesman has a great month, you might give him a plaque or take him to lunch, maybe even give him a bonus. But you wouldn’t chest thump the guy every time he hangs up the phone, would you? No, because he’s just doing his job. The man is working. Let’s let these people do their jobs.

  Equally counterproductive, to my way of thinking, is the now-accepted practice of interviewing players mid-game, mid-huddle, mid-the-very-thing-they’re-there-to-do.

  “Kobe, what are you thinking—down by four with three seconds on the clock? What’s going through your mind right now?”

  “What’s going through my mind? Mainly, ‘Man, I wish this guy wouldn’t talk to me right now because I have to focus so I can make the shot and then we can maybe talk about it after the game.’ How would that be, Sparky? Would you mind not talking to me right now? I’m working!”

  AS I SAY, I seem to be the only one bothered by these accepted practices. And to be honest, I don’t like feeling this way. I start to sound like the cranky Old Guy who sits in the corners at parties and lectures about how much better the world was in his day. (“You know, back then we didn’t have parties. And we were better off for it too!” )

  And maybe my kids are right; maybe there’s nothing wrong with celebrating everything.

  I resolve to change my ways. I decide to be more like everyone else, and less like myself.

  FEW DAYS LATER, I’m out having a catch with my boys. One of them throws the ball a bit high. And by a “bit” I mean “barely missed that hawk overhead.”

  A conventional dad might do a little coaching here. Maybe suggest he release the ball a little later. And also, maybe face me when he does it. Not me. Instead I use what I’ve learned from the NBA players, the positive reinforcement my boys so ferociously defended.

  “Nice throw, son! I’m proud of you. Whooo-hoo! Atta boy! Yeahhhhhhhh!”

  I go to give him a pat on the back and a knuckle bump. He stares at me.

  “Forget it,” he says, and heads off, steamed.

  Apparently, he thought I was being sarcastic.

  What Little I Know

  A couple of things worth knowing about my older son:

  He will try almost any new food.

  He smiles so radiantly that sometimes you actually have to back up.

  When I’m on the phone, he will hover nearby and parrot what I’m saying so exactly and simultaneously, managing to be both titanically obnoxious and brilliantly funny at the same time.

  And until he was about eleven, he didn’t quite realize why—or that—he used a wheelchair.

  His moment of clarity came, as these things often do, in a very roundabout way. We were watching a movie about a soccer player who was afraid he wouldn’t make the team if the coaches found out he had asthma, so he didn’t tell anyone. Then the mean rival guy tried to sabotage him by destroying the guy’s inhaler before the big game. Of course the hero played anyway, but he struggled running up and down the field, what with not being able to breathe and all.

  This was just one scene in an action-packed, two-hour movie, but this was what stayed with my son: the guy breaking the other guy’s inhaler.

  When the movie was over, he sat there, stunned.

  “Oh my God,” he finally said. “My friend in school uses an inhaler!”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “It’s a pretty common thing—asthma, inhalers and stuff.”

  “No, but you don’t understand, Dad. I could accidentally run over his inhaler with my wheelchair and he wouldn’t be able to breathe and he could die!”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen,” I tried to assure him. “First of all, I’m sure he wouldn’t leave it laying around on the floor, and even if he did, I’m sure you wouldn’t roll over it. And even if you accidentally did roll over it, he could get another inhaler really quickly. So, I wouldn’t worry about it; your friend’s going to be fine.”

  But he couldn’t shake the image of his friend being vulnerable like that.

  “I can’t believe he has asthma.”

  And pondering that led him to this:

  “Wow . . . Dad, do I have any disabilities?”

  I looked at him, not knowing where or how to begin. He certainly knew his own history: that he was born three months earlier than he was supposed to. That when other kids started walking, he didn’t. That he needs to use a wheelchair, and that most people don’t. But until he saw that movie, he had never realized what they mean when they say someone has a “disability.” It was like in the cartoons when Wile E. Coyote runs off a cliff but doesn’t notice there’s no ground beneath his feet till he looks down, and that’s when he begins to fall.

  Until this moment, my son had never really looked down. That moment was, for him, the beginning of clarity and acceptance. That it came to him by thinking not of himself but of his friend, and his fear that he could someday—however unintentionally—do something to endanger his friend’s safety, that is the essence of my son’s character; he sees the world in terms of others first, himself second.

  HE HAS NEVER asked why he was dealt this particular hand; why he is someone who has to use a wheelchair. He does on occasion share simply that he hates it, and he wishes it wasn’t so. In those moments I have nothing remotely helpful to say. I remind him that I’m with him on that; I hate it too. And that more than anything in the universe, I too wish it weren’t the case.

  But we don’t talk about it much beyond that. We just sit together in the midst of the loudest quiet there is. In the center of that quiet, there’s a dull thumping; a perceptibly pulsing emptiness that announces we’ve traveled to the farthest reach of our combined reasoning. At that point, we just stay there, together, until we’re ready to move on.

  I MARVEL DAILY at this boy’s sparkling spirit and unshakable sense of self.

  He was once in the schoolyard, playing with a buddy, when another kid—a jerk of a child who had been unforgivingly cruel to my son in the past, teasing him about some of his challenges—wanted to play with them. My son’s buddy (the nice one) stood in my son’s defense and told the kid no, he couldn’t join them. The kid persisted. My son, the diplomat, then brokered the truce, telling the bully simply but firmly, “Okay, you can play with us, but you’re not allowed to make fun of me.” The kid considered it, and accepted. He joined them, and never made fun of my son again.

  Where a son of mine would get that clarity and moxie I couldn’t tell you; I know I never had it myself.

  I’VE OFTEN WONDERED how exactly it is that my son, or his brother—or any child—ends up going to the parents that they do. I don’t think it’s coincidence. I enjoy entertaining the likelihood that there’s some design behind it; that each family comes together as they do for a particular set of reasons. That everyone is there to get something. And even if they’re not meant to get something out of it, they usually get something anyway. That’s what a family does: it forms you. Uniquely and distinctly, hopefully in good ways as well as otherwise.

  Ironically, because of my older son, our world has become more accessible. The universe has expanded for our family in ways it otherwise would not have. We are more appreciative and more keenly aware of every accomplishment, of what every seemingly minor achievement entails—getting from here to there, for example—and how miraculous it all is.

  We are more aware of everyone around us. And they of us. Strangers are more gracious, more solicitous, more generous of heart. Partially because that’s just human nature; you see someone could use an extra hand, you extend that hand. You hold a door open longer, you offer help up a steep curb, you find that extra measure of patience. It’s what people do.

  But more than that, it’s the sheer force of my son’s personality that opens those doors. He engages the world with such intensity and sincerity that he is an undeniable force for good. And I know this didn’t come from me or even his mother; his particular inclinations and skill set are his alone.

  For one thing, this is a kid who loves me
eting new people. (Something I, myself, can generally live without.) Upon meeting someone, he will learn more about them in five minutes than I would in several afternoons, and will then proceed to remember everything forever. We’ve been to hotels, restaurants, doctors’ offices, for example—sometimes seven years after our last visit—and my son will recall, with unfailing accuracy, the first name of the waiter, the doorman, the nurse, or the receptionist, and where they’re from. By contrast, I tend to start forgetting people’s names while they’re telling me. Not this kid. He takes in—and connects to—everyone.

  WHEN HE WAS MUCH YOUNGER, and wondered why it was he was born earlier than he was meant to, we sometimes joked that it must have been because he had so much he wanted to do in life, he couldn’t wait to get started. It seemed as good an explanation as any.

  With time, though, I’ve come to see there was more truth to that than I knew. My son, at fifteen, has plans to travel to (and learn the language of) every country he’s ever heard of—in an absurdly circuitous sequence: start with Japan, then scoot over to Jamaica, pass through Portugal, China, Switzerland, and Kenya, before finishing up in Korea. He wants to meet the president, he wants to meet the pope. He wants to meet the guys who fly planes, he wants to meet the guys who clean the planes. He wants to meet the person who makes coffee (not who puts up the pot of coffee—the person who actually puts coffee beans in the ground and makes coffee). He wants to kiss a girl from every country. He wants to meet the lady who arranges the travel for professional sports teams. (He may want to kiss her too, he hasn’t mentioned it.)

  We—his family, actual and extended—will endeavor to help him accomplish every one of his goals. As we will his brother. He may need a bit more help than his brother, and that’s fine; that’s precisely what we’re here for.

  EVERYONE WHO HAS CHILDREN knows there is nothing they wouldn’t do for their kids. It’s not even necessarily a conscious decision; it’s a capacity that gets born in you at their birth. From that moment on, you discover that you will do things you’ve never done before, things you may not want to do, things you’re afraid of, things that may make you question your sanity. Sometimes all of those in one swoop.