On Parenting
Last Monday I was toting my pack along the dusty Tan-Tar-A road but since then, I’ve been everywhere, man. I’ve been everywhere.
I’ve been to Sedalia, Atlanta, Farmingdale, Glendale, Glen Cove, Park Slope, Highlands, Collingswood, Red Bank, Red Hook, Little Neck, what the heck? I’ve been everywhere.
Unfortunately, the trip to the Ozarks was cut short due to a death in the family. My wife and I lost a grandmother. She was 95-years-old and she hd lived a full life and a good life thanks to my in-laws who worked to make sure she was comfortable and suitably entertained for the past five years. Despite this, it’s always hard for a family to say goodbye.
Along the way, I got to say hello to family and friends and visit my four-month-old nephew. I suppose I should say something that takes into account the proverbial “circle of life” but I don’t really have anything profound to say on the subject.
Lot’s of other people did, however.
Apparently – and I didn’t know this – the only thing that my nephew thinks about is having a cousin to play with. Since I’m my sister’s only sibling, that would make this playmate providing responsibility mine (and, ostensibly, my wife would have some role to play). See, I’m totally ignorant of things like that. I assumed, in my naivete that the baby concerned himself with things like eating and sleeping. But what do I know? I never read Dr. Nimoy.
Another close relative suggested that I take some immediate actions, too. In a heartfelt – or, in my case, heart stopping – moment, I was told to “make [my wife] pregnant.” Not, “Hey…when are you going to start a family” or “Gee…wouldn’t it be nice to have a child of your own” or “Shucks, I bet your parents would like to have some grandchildren.” Instead, I was issued a decree. “Make her pregnant.”
That’s so hardcore.
It was with that in mind (and a brutal Luminary deadline) that I begged off from a night of dancing with my wife in New York City – and that’s saying something. She’s the best dancer on the planet. (Perhaps I was afraid of where it would lead…no pun.) So instead, I hopped a high-speed ferry for the coast and a night sleeping under my parents’ roof. Before arriving, however, I found that I was parched and so it came to pass that I found myself at a seashore watering hole, solving the problems of the world with the local inhabitants of the area.
It’s funny…no matter where I go…be it Parkville or Sandy Hook, the questions are always the same: “where’s your wife?” In this case, I could have just said “at home” or “she was unable to make it tonight” but no, I went for the honest approach.
“She’s dancing,” I said. “She’s at Swing 46 (a swing dancing club)…she’s a swing dancer.”
“Oh,” came the reply from the couple I was speaking with.
We had another drink, watched the sunset, listening to some reggae music, when the other shoe decidedly dropped. The husband of the two leaned over first.
“You swing?,” he asked.
“No, I don’t, but my wife does,” I replied.
“Oh…that’s too bad,” he said, continuing after a nod towards his wife. “Because my wife is really attracted to you and she wants you to come home with her.”
Two thoughts immediately came to mind. One; I had just unwittingly outed my dear, sweet wife as swinger instead of a swing dancer, and, two; hey…the guy’s wife was pretty good looking, I had to admit. Alas, there comes a time in every man’s life when he has to call for the tab, even if the sun hasn’t fully set, even if there was still a little food left, a few more sips in the glass, and lay down some truth.
“You know, I would. But I’ve got to go home and take care of the kids.”
Excusing myself, I left, walked to the nearest pay phone and added yet another poignant moment to this story of parental proportions.
“Mom? Can you come pick me up?”