It’s all about choices

I choose who I am.

I am my better self.

Everything else follows from that.

“Pick up your toys.”

“No.”

“Say, ‘Yes, Daddy.'”

Oftentimes, just convincing them to say, “Yes,” is enough to allow themselves to choose to help, and that’s about the extent of the correction that they need.

I’ve found, though, that this little trick works just as well for me as it does for my children. I have been thinking a lot lately about “How to Dad.” I want my children to know me and appreciate the fact that I was their father. I don’t feel I really understand what it means to be a father, and as I reflect back on my performance, I find myself lacking, and it makes me sad. One of the ways that I am trying harder now is just to do things with my children.

My children were throwing a football to each other on the front lawn the other night. Normally, I would glance out the window, ensure that nobody was killing anybody, and let them play. This time, however, I walked outside and inserted myself into their circle, and they soon tossed the ball to me. We must have spent about an hour playing.

The next day, my boy said to me, “Hey, Dad. Want to throw the football with me?” My instant reaction was to say, “No, I’m really busy. Find a sibling.” But instead, I whispered to myself, “Say yes, Daddy,” and said, “Sure, let’s go right now.” Since then, I’ve been out throwing footballs three or four different times, and even my littlest ones have wanted to join. It’s sad that I’ve already missed so many opportunities. But I don’t need to miss all of them. Now I know how to say yes.

I doubt I’ll ever be a perfect father. But I’m the only father these precious children have, so until I really know “how to Dad,” I just have to pretend that I already know what I’m doing. Saying yes will help. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

We are all far too mortal. We try to ignore the evidence even as we see our bodies age. We are less energetic. We have more wrinkles. We don’t bend down as easily or come back up as quickly. We are more prone to injury. Friends and family members around us precede us in death. And still we lie to ourselves, consider ourselves invincible, refuse to consider what our final state will be. The moment we are born, we enter into a contract with death. We live our lives desperately ignoring the consequences of that contract, but in the end we too are claimed by its uncompromising grip.

What really matters in life? When we leave this life, we go out in a small box. Maybe in new, ill-fitting clothes. But we don’t take anything with us. We leave it all behind. Our only choice is what to leave behind. Do we leave behind money and possessions? Do we leave behind family, children, grandchildren, friends who felt our love and our service during our brief lives?

When my time comes, will what I have chosen to leave behind be of any value to those still here?

I can’t help but think of my own father, and his relationship with me. When his time comes to pass away, will my tears come from missing his company and his love? Or will they come because I’ve already missed his company and his love? Why couldn’t he have taught me how to ride a bike? Or tossed a baseball back and forth? Or taught me how to hunt? Or how to fix a car? Why were our car rides always in silence? I’ve missed you, Dad.

You aren’t gone yet, but it’s already too late. I can’t recapture as an adult the things I missed from you as a child. When you pass away, I won’t cry for the things that I’ll miss about you, but for the things that I’ve already missed.

And what of my children? What are they missing? I can do better. Nobody ever taught me how to be a father, but I’m going to figure it out anyway. It’s too important for me to let my children miss me while I am still here, while I still have the possibility of being here for them.

I take after my father in so many ways. God help me. Teach me to change the future. Help me not miss my children’s lives. What will I leave behind?

How do you say, with that tender, frail body laying on the cold metal examining table, that a couple thousand dollars is worth more than her life? That your heart is breaking, that you should never be faced with a decision like this, that if you could do it, you would spend 100 times that amount, if even a glimmer of hope remained? How do you look into her eyes and tell her that she isn’t going to make it, and that you were the person who had to make the decision? How do you explain to her that you swallowed the lump in your throat and signed the bottom of the page with euthanasia spelled out in big bold letters at the top?

How do you say, as you ignore the filth on the back of her legs, that she is beautiful and precious, and you can’t stand to let her go? How do you explain why you wrap your arms so tightly around her? How can you tell her why the tears come to your eyes and why you wipe them away and try to pretend they weren’t there at all when the veterinarian comes back in the room? How do you explain why when it’s time for her to go that you can’t seem to release her, and yet with the vet looking on, you uncurl your fingers and wipe the hair off your sweaty palms and somehow find the strength to turn your back and walk out the door?

How do you explain it to a puppy? And why should you ever have to?