I have noticed many transformations as I’ve aged. It’s not like I’m a dinosaur, but things have changed. For example, when I step into the chair to get my haircut I can count on whoever is doing the shearing honors to gently clip away the hair between my eyebrows. A couple of years back, I got a nose hair clipper from my wife as a gift. (In all fairness I had reluctantly asked for this item, which I now use on a regular basis.) I’m only 37, and it is apparent that I will be up for a role on Planet of the Apes by the time I hit 53. It isn’t just physical changes either. I find myself making stupid jokes; stupid dad jokes. I can’t help it. It’s simply what us dads do.
One of these changes has been a long time in the making: I’ve turned into a wimp. I’m not talking about my muscles or my ability to keep up with my 12-year-old son. I can still take him down when I want to . . . at least for now. I’m talking about my emotions; in particular I’m talking about my emotions when it comes to children.
I remember the first time I noticed this less than macho trait. It was in 2000. My son was then only two years old. I heard a story on the news about another two-year-old, Gage Wayment. Gage’s father had left him in the truck, asleep, while he hunted in the mountains. The father’s heart must have exploded with fear when he returned to the truck and Gage was nowhere to be found. Five days later, they found Gage’s frozen little body.
As this story churned in my mind, I pictured my tiny two-year-old wandering through the forest, “Dada? ‘Er go? Dada?” The story went from churning in my mind to stirring in my heart. Tears burst from my swollen eyes as I put myself in this father’s place. I was a wimp. A big, fat, blubbering wimp.
This “wimpyness” has not gotten any better since then. In fact, it may have developed even more. Whenever I hear stories about kids who have suffered it slashes at my heart.
Recently, on my birthday as a matter of fact, a fourteen-year-old boy in our area was on his way to a youth activity at his church. He, like many kids that age, loves to spend time on his long board. So, he was carving a path down the street when a girl, on her way to the same activity, slammed into him with her car. Right there, not a block from his church, he died. His young heart stopped beating, forever searing a hole in his mother’s heart.
I weep.
What is this feeling? Why does having kids or getting older bring it on? I think I’ve determined what it is: it is love. It’s love for people I’ve never met. It’s love for my own children. It’s love for all of mankind. Having children has made me somehow less selfish towards the feelings of others. I’ve also determined something else: I am not a wimp. I’m a man. I love. Is there anything more manly?
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