Each stage of your child’s life affects you as a parent differently. It doesn’t seem that way when you start down this path. When you decide to have children, it seems as though you are signing up for a static experience, like, “I am sitting down to eat this bowl of macaroni and cheese.” In reality, you are signing up for a variety of experiences, each with its own challenges and rewards. Sure one bite may be mac ‘n cheese, but the next bite may be meat loaf, and the bite after that may involve the words cod, liver and oil. You never really know what the next bite has in store.
Does it get any better than this?
This is because, obviously, as kids grow up they change. They change and they interact with you differently. Sometimes this is good, as in when their digestive systems calm down and they stop throwing up on you. Sometimes this is bad, as in when they stop calling you, “Daddy” and insist that your name is “Fuckface” or even worse, “Paul.”
We are totally enamored with stage of development Malcolm is at right now. I must admit, though, that the last two words of that sentence scare the crap out of me. What if this is the pinnacle of parenting? What if this iteration of our kid is the most pleasing iteration we will ever get? The possibility that we will spend the rest of our lives with a child that we like less than this is almost flabbergasting. (Yes, that’s right, almost flabbergasting. It takes a lot for me to actually get flabbergasted. Flabbergasted, what a weird word.)
My dilemma is partially due to the fact that I am really digging Malcolm right now and partially because I am completely mortified of each stage of development that Malcolm hasn’t reached. Sure, we are now able to really enjoy things like sports, games and tickle fights, but at some point this will change (unless you’re Eric Massa!) Will he stop wanting to be seen with me in public? Will he stop playing baseball in real life and just want to play video games? When do the smoking and drinking start? I don’t know the answers to these questions, and the unknown is cause for concern. So, I worry that this it. This is the time I will always look back on as “the glory days.” Sigh.
My ace in the hole is that I am no longer as hung up on Malcolm’s blemishes as I once was (what hunchback?). Sure he has issues (a grandma at a local park just asked him why he was so mean spirited,) but I conveniently ignore them and focus on the good (we played an entire game of basketball out in the driveway: He won 100-96, doing the math himself all game long.) Isn’t that what all parents do? Rose colored glasses do a great job of blinding you to red flags.
It does get better. Those are March Madness Brackets!
Maybe that’s just it. Maybe I always think things are getting better because I have just gotten better at deluding myself. To tell you the truth, I don’t even mind doing it this way, provided I can always be happy about where Malcolm is in life. I guess it’s my form of Prozac. I can only hope that the day he walks through the door with cigarette in his mouth and says,”Hey Fuckface, where’s my new video game?” and I can turn to Amy and say, “Hear that? He stopped calling me Paul!”
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