Before anyone falls out of their chair, I am not fathering another child. If you recall, Diablo my ex took care of that with the Case of the Celtic Dick Snipper. So no mas bambinos pequeño para moi. And yes, I know I’ve mixed my languages. Fun huh?
Rather, I am about to be a father full-time again. Several weeks ago, my teenaged son decided that he wanted to move in with me. It has always been an option for him, a one-time deal that was irrevocable. This would keep him from ping-ponging between parents, which is hardly a way to raise a child or set appropriate boundaries.
This is, or should I say was, a big decision. An excellent learning opportunity on the gravity and importance of making big decisions in his life.
I was very careful not to sway his decision. I answered his questions honestly, but didn’t campaign. It wasn’t my decision to make. It was all his. The mountains that had to be moved to make it happen were not his problem, anymore than his decision to move here was mine.
Suffice it to say that this decision has sent a whole set of tumblers spinning in all directions. The first order of business was to get him registered for school. The last time I was involved in this process he was in pre-school, just out of daycare. So you can imagine that I am a little out of step in this regard.
Still, I’m a pretty smart guy and a dogged parent. I did my homework, found which school was his and after about a half hour he was registered. I admit that I didn’t know all the answers to the zillion questions on the form. Things like his grandparent’s address or their phone number, or even his social security number. I’m not sure who keeps these things handy, as if you’re going to be asked for them routinely.
It’s a nice school. Brand new, in fact. It’s about 10 minutes’ walk from the house and is about half the size population-wise of his old school. The registration gig was relatively easy. But now there is a cascade of other eventualities, such as counselor appointments, yearbooks to buy and iPads to rent – the whole kit and caboodle of putting any kid in school. Old hat for many of my friends. Unexplored territory for me.
I have learned the hard way that you just have to soldier on and figure things out. On the one hand (and it is a really big hand), I am thrilled to spend more time with my teenage son and get to know him well in these last years of his young adult life. I had the same privilege with his now adult sister when she was the same age and she turned out extremely well. So I have hopes that I won’t botch this opportunity up too much. But on the other, much, much smaller hand, I am terrified I won’t be a good parent, at least a full-time one.
In some ways we are both going back to school. While he’s busy going to his new high school as a sophomore, I will become schooled in being a full-time parent again. I have no idea what that really means. Oh sure, I get the basics. But even if I’ve had other kids (which I have), each one is different and none of them comes with an owner’s manual. You just have to make it up as you go along.
It has also come with its share of surprises. Last week, my friends at work threw me a baby shower. It was slightly tongue in cheek, but so thoughtful. My gifts included a giant bottle of Tums, earplugs, a couple of books on how to raise your teenager, and some gifts for Parker as well – deodorant, facial scrub pads, a razor – and a game we two can play so we can get to know each other.
I have already gotten quite used to having him around. The house was looking kind of empty (long story, a later one I will tell) and he’s filled a nice void, filling it with hipper music than I usually listen to, the constant sound of mortar and gunfire from various video games, and hilarious YouTube videos I didn’t know exist. He obviously has my sense of humor.
He also has my appetite. This is not to say that he shares my love of food, but rather that he actually has my appetite in addition to his. My cupboards and refrigerator are constantly ravaged and rampaged, as if a hungry horde of Huns had somehow found my house in Shoreline. One day there is tons of food, the next, everything’s gone. I call him The Locust. It’s a typical teenager thing, I know. I am certainly guilty of having had the same voracious appetite when I was his age.
The food must be working its magic. He is now 6′ 1″, towering slightly over me. He is growing taller by the day. Who knows where he will end up. I only hope the ceilings in the house are high enough for him.
I’m sure there will be many surprises awaiting both he and I as we set out on this journey together. But I’m ready for it. Though I have doubted my parenting capabilities in the past, I think this will be a grand adventure, one that hopefully will have us both learning a lot, not only about each other, but about life as well.
Time will tell. Future RobZerrvations may cover my hair falling out or a strange rash that’s developed suddenly. Of course, it could go the other way, offering glowing reports of how well life is as a real dad. Well, you know what I mean.
Whatever transpires, it will be a helluva an adventure as is all of life.
In the Emerald City, looking for a bassinet big enough to put my baby boy in…
– Robb