Fother

Your Father is a Mother

It’s 4:30 am.  I sit here in the semi darkness, drinking some coffee.  Besides the coffee not being Yuban and minus two or three cigarettes, I am re-enacting a ritual my mother (your Grandma) used to perform every single day.  The low glow that illuminates my face is not orange and brightened by breath as I sit on our couch, though.  When you see me first thing in the morning sitting with my laptop and coffee, you’ll notice the dim white light and fresh air which in stark contrast to my Mother’s routine. The upholstery doesn’t  smell like stale smoke, but it certainly smells better since we sprayed some enzymes on this cushion.

Grandma’s birthday has passed. Mother’s Day has just passed.  My mom has passed.  It kind of all came and went.  Since Mother’s Day it has been occurring to me that my Mom, your Grandma Macy(Gillespie), is alive and well in our house.

I don’t mean  she is walking the halls as a smokey aberration.  Rather in almost every action,  I find movements of her, memories and assumed points of view. As I stand at the sink doing dishes, I peer through the smallish window at you playing.  At the stove making mac and cheese and putting laundry out on the line while you play in the sprinkler.  From all these points of view I have seen myself, looking up through the eyes of my child self and I must say, I look a lot like my Mom.

Not until you were born, in fact not until recently, do I find myself having the same the thoughts or same visual experiences that I imagine my mother having when she was raising my brother and I.  Not until recently have I seriously considered that my depressed and alcoholic mother and I shared much of anything in terms of ‘point of views.’

Today, I find myself watching you with her minds eye.  My own mind is filled with the feelings of contented joy and purpose that she must have felt while raising us. The excitement that must have coursed through her veins as Tim and I caught things on fire in the kitchen while she napped.  The profound sadness in her tears when I told her I hated her for not letting me “bob for apples” one summer.  I see, through her memory, the joy of your first water balloon, sprinkler dash and homemade orange juice popsicle.  I remember her smiling as I smile now.

I  remember seeing in her eyes, the same emotion and clarity that I feel when I am with you Owen.  I understand how the loss of this obvious sense of oneness, in the growing and the exiting of our children, must be considered a great physical loss.  

I remember this feeling, I never had, of watching Dad leave for work.  Now, that I am the one who sends off his domestic partner with a “Have a nice day.” and “What would you like for dinner?”  I find that all the years of being raised by my mother at home, with all the passive learning, blossoming inside of me, as I believe ‘Motherhood’ blossomed inside of her.  The ‘home school education’ concerning the routine and rhythms that I would feel so strongly affirmed now.  Something feels right about staying home with you Owen, and doing many of the things my own mother did with and for me.

Was I conditioned to these motherly ways during my lopsided domestic influence, or somehow predispositioned to slide into this traditionally feminine role?  I don’t know. One thing for sure, the ‘stay at home Dad’ is a phenomenon that is growing.  Although it was a little challenging to give up the independence and money that I was making, I find myself utterly content and filled with a real sense of joy when we get  up early in the morning, blast “Eye of the Tiger” or the “Tao of Pooh”.  I Love driving around Black Lake early in the morning, going with you…..anywhere.  I feel a bit feminine and blessed when I am cooking meals for us or when we join up with a bunch of Mom’s for a play date.

I start to understand the loss of self mothers begin to feel when children leave.  I also witness, from this point of view, the pain and sorrow of the traditionally masculine roles the of ‘nine to fiver’. While his job is no more difficult, how painful it must be, to be compelled to leave. There is much less choice and freedom in his day and I can understand the pain and
resentments that exist.

All in all Owen I am very pleased to be your Fother.  I consider it a rare and beautiful opportunity filled with so many role contradictions and creations.  There is nothing that feels more appropriate than this domestic, daily life we share.  It feels strangely familiar and new at the same time.  It is the perfect role for me now and as we look for jobs every morning together I realize that my situation is temporary.  I will not always hear your footsteps coming down the hall, sleepily, to come cuddle up with me first thing.  It is a rare, beautiful time.  I am thankful…..to God, to you, to Moms and beyond.