Macaroni Dad

We love each of our children beyond explanation, and the great thing about them is that they are all completely unique in body, mind, spirit and genetic makeup. To recap on the commonly asked Jerry Springer question that tries to explain our family tree, there is a “hers,” a “mine” and an “ours.” Although we don’t fit the typical definition of what you would see under the heading of a perfect family, it is “our” family and it has been the best setting for this learning experience we call life. Of the three of our kids, the last is the one that shares characteristics of all of us...and none of us. She is the one that ties us all together but also sets us apart. Without her our family circle wouldn’t be complete, and although she is the youngest, she may somehow be more than all of us.

My youngest daughter was about 10 minutes away from being born on the dashboard of our Ford Windstar as we sped to the hospital in the very early morning of November 21, 2005. Knowing that this was our third and final kid, I probably played the cool, collected father part just a bit too long. My experienced assessment of the situation was that these were merely little contractions in the very beginning of what was going to be a very exhausting day for me, so the less time spent in the hospital the better. What I didn’t realize at the time was that my daughters little pointy head was beginning to poke out and look around. This was evidenced by my wife’s big toe in my right ear and raised stance she had taken in the passenger seat looking very much like a gymnast getting ready to dismount the pommel horse. Still, I knew nothing.

“How are those contractions coming baby?”

I worked quickly to get my wife into a wheel chair and then turned her over to an assistant who would get her up to the hospital room. Then I returned to the vehicle and spent a few quiet moments cautiously selecting items we would need for the long night. Radio? Slippers? Deodorant? Comfy pillow? Stretch Mark Lotion.....Nah.... Hmmmmmm....? What I didn’t realize at the time was that my wife was doing what she could in the hospital room to keep me from missing the birth of my daughter. A few minutes later and as I entered the doorway of the room, the nurse yelled at me to get my wife into the bed before my daughter was born into the cold water of a porcelain bowl. The doctor wouldn’t make it in for the birth this night. Our youngest had decided that the time was ripe to enter this world and within the next 10 minutes it would all be over.

She came out like she was ready for a street brawl...and then she screamed for a solid 10 months. From the start she had a certain amount of grit and growl that I hadn’t seen in our other two kiddlings. The oldest boy was mellow, smiling and good natured 99% of the time and as long as you talked about anti-gravity boots or played Mario Bros with him there were no incidents. Things got fun in the late high school years, but overall there were not any sad or challenging moments. Also at that time the 12 year old girl still had a glimmer of sweetness about her and liked pink things, fuzzy bunnies, painted fingernails, and glamorous hairstyles. It would be a couple of years before she grew fangs and horns and morphed into a teenager bringing the entire family more in tune with local law enforcement and Dr. Phil.

But the last child was not like the rest.

This new creature had a strange mix of ingredients not previously seen. Not at all sugary and spicy, fuzzy and fragrant, or flowery, powder-puff-stuff of what other little girls were made from, but more like midnight dew, wolverine fur, sea shell gravel, stardust, barnacles, bellybutton lint, tequila, tabasco, and fire ant venom. Somehow a vagrant woman from the northeast met up with an inbred, barn raised, cow herder from the great plains of the mid-west and they made a new family and created an entirely new recipe. Up until now the gods had tried hard to separate such a catastrophe from happening, but not even mountain ranges, oceanic barriers and planetary rotation could stop this one from being. Sometimes you just look at your children and you can’t imagine them any better than they are now...sometimes you know that they are supposed to be here and it couldn’t have been any other way.

I wondered what these ingredients might cook up. I hoped that she liked science and math and sports like me, but that she had the will and discipline and determination to get things done like her mom. It was like taking a ¼ cup of all the ingredients in your kitchen, mixing them into a blended puree and baking at 425°F for 9 months. This could be a mess...but it could also be amazing.

Fast Forward...present day.

My youngest daughter has been playing soccer for over a year now and watching her run at a full sprint up and down the field with ridiculously long hair flowing in the wind has helped me remember how fun Saturday mornings can be. We haven’t won every game and we haven’t always shined in our efforts, but we have had fun learning the game and the challenges and sportsmanship that accompany sometimes losing. Regardless of the score at the end of the game, I have seen a fearless intensity and a fire in my daughter’s eyes that I never had while growing up. At the same time she is not at all afraid of the big soccer boys. Somehow, she shows a natural talent, instinct and ability as she jumps in and gives her full heart and soul. I am not sure it comes from me or from her mother, but possibly from the best parts of both of us. What is even more rewarding is that I don’t think she is playing for us; rather, I think she just loves playing soccer regardless of whether her team wins or loses and this makes me smile and swell with pride.