The Daddy Diaries
Chapter 7
Top 10 Ways My Son is Like Jesus
It's almost Labor Day. Technically, that means it's still summer for a few more weeks, but sadly we've been getting bombarded with back-to-school shopping messages since July, and I'm noticing Christmas stores opening for business. Part of me wants to scream: Stop stealing my last weeks of summer," but instead, for Christmas, a few thoughts on the top 10 ways my son is similar to Jesus.
1. They both look terrific in a shroud.
2. They are both completely honest.
3. Both have blue eyes, blonde hair, both kinda Jewish.
4. Both prefer sandals.
5. Both are best friends with whores. (We got him a stuffed animal of a whore.)
6. Neither speaks English or knows what the internet is.
7. Jesus was born through immaculate conception. Maybe not immaculate but Lev's was also quite tidy.
8. Jesus turned water into wine. Lev turns water into whine. Especially bath time.
9. When either of them gets upset, they flip tables over.
10. Both have ass-kicking dads.
You may argue that all of the above points are infantile, and I agree. We are all infants. Most of us, as adults, have learned that if we stub our toe, we react differently than if our house burns down or someone shoots us in the kneecap. We modulate our weeping accordingly. The Happiest Baby on the Block author Harvey Karp points out that babies are like smoke alarms: they have no ability to modulate. Last night at 4 a.m., junior was up wailing like a 10-alarm house fire, and after trying everything to soothe him, ultimately, he calmed down by sucking on my thumb as I chanted some mantras directly into his skull, lips pressed softly against his soft fontanel as if my breath and being were pouring a bucket of peace directly into him.
I got back in bed and huddled my arm around Michelle. We were both frazzled. I doubt any couple has a newborn without feeling some stress on the relationship. I had the sudden realization that both she and I -- and everyone else for that matter -- are also like that crying baby: Outside we have learned to tone down the howling, but inside we want to be reassured that we are safe, that someone will let us suck on their thumb.
Even Dick Cheney feels this way. Okay, maybe not Dick Cheney -- he just wants to set an oil field on fire and waterboard a bunny rabbit. But everybody else has a little tender spot inside where we remember (or remain) that terrified and vulnerable little person who woke up his parents at 4 a.m., screaming, hoping for a reassuring hug.
It would be nice if one hug fixed you for life, but no. We need constant reassurance, and that can get tiring when you are the hug-giver. A swimming pool full of patience comes in handy, but maybe more important is remembering that we ourselves also needed and still need the same kind of comfort we are giving.
Just because we're not the one in diapers, or the frigid body sleeping on the street, or vividly aware of the fact that we're dying as much as we're living at this very moment, doesn't mean we aren't also in need a kiss on the forehead.
In dealing with each other, whether it's a spouse or a shivering stranger, it's good to remember this -- on this day, just about a hundred days shy of Christmas, and every day.