The Toughest Job You'll Ever Love

Someone gave me a tee shirt that says "Fatherhood: the Toughest Job You'll Ever Love." It's a nice shirt, but it, like the "World's Best Dad" tees I've received have remained unworn in my chest of drawers.

It was easy becoming a dad. Being a dad is much harder. And I'm not sure I have bragging rights.

Eli is a great kid. His mothers have done a terrific job raising him. He never went through the terrible twos -- but welcome to the testy threes.

By testy I don't mean touchy. I mean he wants to test what he can get away with and likes to play opposites, meaning, he'll do the exact opposite of what you tell him to do and then look at you to see if you'll let him get away with it, often with a great smile on his face with great joy at this new game he's invented called "Let's Push Daddy's (or mommie's or Pappa's) buttons and see if we can make his/her head explode."

Intuitively I know this is normally and of course I've confirmed this with other parents. This is something I expected.

What I didn't expect was the anger and contempt he'd hurl at me. During yesterday's 14 hour (garage door to final terminal gate) trip he threatened (at the top of his voice) to hurl me from the airplane window and rejected almost every request with a Sith Lord look of defiance on his three year old face. "Eli, please sit down and fasten your seatbelt, we're about to land." "No!" he screamed, looking at me as if he himself would jump out the airplane to avoid doing anything I wanted him to do. (let's face it, he gets this naturally -- his old man is one stubborn son of a bitch). The worst was when he made an etch-a-sketch drawing, told me to save it, and then looked at me and said angrily, "I didn't make it for YOU."

Ouch.

Okay, okay, I know I shouldn't take it personally. And I'm trying as best I can to not outwardly betray any emotion other than calm (I'm not always successful.) But look, when you see the boy less than one-fifth of a year and he wants to toss you out of an airplane when you do, how could it not personally effect you? When a loved one says hurtful things they still hurt even when you know they don't really mean them, do they not?

Christmas night did not go well. We had a fabulous day and his presence and laughter was the best Christmas gift. Then his nighttime going to bed routine started and he was a decidedly unhappy camper. It ended with him hitting me (this is also new and part of his new defiance routine) and telling me later that "I don't want you to tell me a story I want Pappa!!"

I returned to the dinner table while Pappa went to tell him a story in bed. My dad was offering words of reassurance and everyone was telling me not to take it personally. Right.

I knew I couldn't let Christmas end this way so I softly entered Eli's bedroom where Pappa was in the middle of the story. Wordlessly I slipped into Eli's bed and lay down next to him. I listened to Pappa's story -- a story he made up about me riding through a rain storm to get to Eli, dubbed "The Muddy Bike Ride Story" which Eli always requests while here. Eli was laying with his back to me and I put my face deep in the sheets and silently cried tears over the frustration and beauty of it all.

Pappa said his goodnight and left us. We lay there silently for a few moments. Then Eli rolled over facing me, reached down with a little hand and grabbed mine, and pushed his tiny fingers between my own. We lay there like that in the silence for 15 minutes. Knowing he wasn't asleep, I whispered to him, "I love you very, very much." He opened his eyes and whispered, "I love you very much, Daddy."

Yes, it is a tough job. And I'm am often quite sure I'm not up to the task. But how could I not love it?

Goodnight Eli, and goodbye for now. Daddy loves you very, very much