When I used to think about being a father, I imagined myself with daughters. I suppose I knew that I was just as likely to have a son as a daughter, but in my daydreams, it was always a little girl who brightened by heart. I could see myself tenderly raising a daughter. I thought of the magical feelings of holding her close as an infant, and when she's older dressing her up for Sunday church in little dresses that make her look like a cross between kisses and sunlight. I looked forward to tucking her in at night and telling her stories. Anyone who has been kissed on the cheek by a happy little girl can testify that there is something magical about it.
Boys, I thought, were fine, but they certainly didn't capture my heart. Boys always seemed to be getting themselves dirty and teasing and fighting. Also, I had less of a clear idea what it took to be a good father to a little boy. I had vague ideas about playing catch and going to sports games and other such "bonding" activities, but the idea never really took hold of me.
When the time came near for my first child to be born, I knew I would have to be prepared to give myself completely to this little one, boy or girl. I steeled myself up and solemnly vowed that a little boy would get just as much attention or more from me as a little girl. I wanted to be a good father.
Anyone who has ever had children knows, of course, what happened when I first saw my little boy. I had known I would love him, but I hadn't realized how easy and natural it would be. I fell in love with him the first moment I saw him. I remember holding him with my wife, my arm around her, and my other hand underneath his little head. I kissed her cheek and tried to think of something to whisper in her ear, but nothing sounded right. The moment was too powerful for words. My tears fell on the sleeve of her hospital gown as we held him there. My world had gone from a couple to a family. I was a father.
You don't realize until you have children how much extra time you must have had before they came into your life. Before my son was born, if you had asked me how much free time I had in a week, I would have told you I had very little. Looking back, I know I must have had more than I thought, or else I just wasn't using my time very efficiently. Somehow I found the extra time for feeding and changing and rocking and burping - mainly at the expense of sleep. I know everyone at work must have gotten tired of always hearing about my little boy, but I couldn't help myself. He was the light of my life.
As time passed, I continually discovered new joys and challenges of fatherhood. Before I knew it, he was walking and talking and had found a whole slew of new ways to get in trouble. I sometimes found myself getting discouraged with the daunting challenges he presented, or just plain worn out from being around his constant energy. Those moments were balanced out, though, by that charm God gives little children to ensure we have patience with them. I couldn't help but laugh and smile with his constant questions, and I was flattered when he would follow me around and imitate whatever I was doing. He would tag along with me when I worked outside, watching and asking questions and trying to help. He loved to wrestle with me more than just about anything else. Children like the reassurance that daddy is strong and can protect them, and they especially like it when daddy lets them win.
A couple months ago one of the biggest challenges so far presented itself. My wife drug him in by one arm from playing outside and reported that he and his friends had been tormenting a frog they had found. It had a broken leg, and they had been poking it with sticks and laughing as it tried in vain to jump away with its one working leg. I looked at my little boy, standing there with his arm limply dangling from his mother's firm hand, scowling at the floor. His hair was long again. Somehow he always seems to be in need of a haircut. I knew if I asked him about it, he would say he was just having fun. I knew he wasn't thinking of the pain and fear he was causing, only of how funny the frog looked trying to jump with one leg. I sent him to his room, not so much as a punishment, but rather so that I could have some time to think about what I should say to him.
In my family, it was usually my mother who imposed discipline. Because that was the way my family had worked, it was kind of a shock to me when I found that my wife expected me to do the disciplining. She's wonderful, and she loves our children very much, but she usually tends to leave disciplining them up to me. In our family, it's "Go to your room until Daddy gets home." She would probably discipline them if I was gone for a long time and she had to, but when I am around, it usually falls on me to mete out the discipline. I knew it would be up to me to find the right words and the right punishment for this situation. I gave it some thought, and came up with what felt was the best action to take. I talked it over with my wife, and she was agreeable, so I went in to speak with my son.
When I opened his door, I found him sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his shoes. "Son," I told him, "I know you thought you were just having fun today when you hurt that frog, but when you hurt something that's littler than you, you do a very bad thing."
He just nodded and moved his legs, still staring at his shoes.
"What you did is going to need a pretty big punishment."
His legs stopped moving. He was listening now.
"I'm going to have you take care of another animal to make up for the one you hurt, and it's going to be a lot of work. You'll have to do a whole lot of nice things for another animal to make up for hurting the frog."
"What animal?" he wanted to know.
"You're going to have a cat to take care of."
Well, that didn't sound like such a bad punishment to him. "Oh. Ok." he said. He wanted to go back out and play, the whole thing over in his mind. I knew I would end up spending twice as much time making sure he took proper care of a cat than it would take me to take care of a cat myself. However, I wanted him to learn to have empathy for something smaller than himself. I wanted him to have a chance to practice being responsible for something.
I decided to make the trip to the pet store right then and there. I wanted it all to be connected in his mind. We drove down to the closest one, and he took out different kittens and held them. I made sure he only saw the females, not wanting the extra trouble of having a tom around. He soon found the one we would get: a calico that licked his fingers when he picked her up. He held her under his chin and announced that this was the one he wanted.
All the way home I talked about the different responsibilities required for taking care of a cat. I told him how he must always be very gentle with her if he wanted her to trust him, and if he ever hurt her, it would take ten nice things or more to make her trust him again. (I remembered my mother saying something similar to me when I was his age.) I told him about litter boxes and cat food and brushing and petting, and I referred occasionally to the frog who he had hurt and was now dead. Since he couldn't make up the hurt to the frog, he would have to make up the hurt by taking care of this cat every day.
When we got home, I asked him what he was going to name his new cat. He got very serious and pondered the question for several seconds. Finally, he decided. He announced that her name was "Frog". I hid my smile and imagined the amusement visitors to our house would get from that name. I knew it was serious to him, though, so I didn't laugh.
Fortunately, it was summer, so we were able to build his whole schedule around caring for little Frog. He was not allowed to play outside until Frog was fed, brushed, and had had some attention from him. He needed a lot of reminding, but it wasn't as bad as I had feared. When school started again last week, we arranged his morning schedule to make sure Frog got fed and brushed before he left, and when he comes home, he plays with her almost as much as he plays outside.
I had a talk with him a couple days ago about what it means to be a man. I don't know how fully he grasped what I was saying, but I think he got the gist of it. I told him how he will get a lot stronger soon, and how there will always be things and people smaller than him that he could hurt if he wanted to. I told him that I will know he is a man when he has learned to be strong and gentle at the same time. I told him that God gives a man strength so he can protect people and things smaller and weaker than he is.
I got him some hand weights for his birthday that are his size, and he often takes them out when I am using mine. I always have him let me feel his muscles when we get done, and I exclaim about how much bigger they are getting. I ask him then what he's going to do with those muscles, and he tells me that he will protect stuff smaller than him like Frog. I know my son will be a good man.
-J.R. Willett
-02/29/2000