Father Doesn't Know a Friggin' Thing...

In the late 80's and early 90's, I breifly flirted with full-on bleeding heart style liberalism. If you aren't already, just envision small town Texas boy away from home for the first time living amongst folks from a different racial/geo political/socioeconomic class. I tried liberalism, but I didn't inhale.

One thing I did take away with me though, aside from white man's guilt and the understanding that no government employer, no college, and few employers would ever "especially encourage" my application, (I used to joke that I was going to become a black, Jewish, lesbian woman just so that I could get preferences in government contracts), was the idea that dear old lovable Dad just isn't important any more. And I am not talking about my Dad, I mean all dads, fathers or papas in our little culture.

For reasons that aren't important for right now, that little issue has festered and threatened to spew puss all over my psyche for 15 years. Now, it has happened, and the creamy white infected ooze that is the concept of "marginalized fathers" is dripping off of me just like a bad scene out of the director's cut of Pulp Fiction.

This parental acne started to come to the surface last year whil I was on the road. 30,000 air miles last year, and only one time do I get an aircraft with an in-flight movie. The movie was the big screen adaptation of the run away best seller book Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. If you have daughters over the age of, like, 8, they have seen it. If you haven't seen the movie, call CPS and turn yourself in. With a light-hearted approach to teen sex, and an understanding nod to teen angst, the only real moral dilemma the movie pretends to be serious about is how the typical teen age girl can cope with hopelessly imbecillic, thoughtless, conniving, cheating, home wrecking fathers who seem to go out of their way to step on their weiners and piss-off the all omnipotent teenage daughter.

Fine. Hollywood churns out enough just enough films with lesbian starletts that the score stays pretty even. Hollywood hopefully will not get the final say on the matter, but a new book out called The Disposable Male, does not offer much hope, at least from what I can tell. First Darwin was put on trial by the Bible-thumpers, and now I think he is going to be in deep shit with the folks from NOW as well...

Fast forward to two weeks ago. Wife tells me, in no uncertain terms, and with no real pleasant tone of voice, that come hell or high water, she is going to witness the birth of her sister's child when the annointed time comes and the heavens part, raining down the blessings of another future ungrateful child upon the ranks. Something is troublesome to me though, in that lovely wife and jovial sister have laid out all sorts of plans regarding breathing and positions and size of plastic hot dog tongs to be used during the delivery.

What, I wonder (and out loud which was my first mistake), will the new dad be doing while my sometimes stubborn and opinionated wife and her stubborn and over-bearing sister gang up to bring the new bundle of joy and love into the world? Conveniently, the proposed new papa claims to be scared, uncertain of himself, and in need of the motherly guidance of women almost without regard to which women provide same.

Mind you, new papa carries a badge and a gun for a living, so he doesn't get any more of a break for being scared than any of the rest of us millions of new fathers that go through the same range of fears and emotions. These trials and tribulations are where we learn to be dad. Of the 5 children that presently, or recently, called me dad, I attended the birth of 4 of them. 3 were c-sections, and 1 was a natural birth.

The in-laws attended the natural birth. They sat and played cards in the corner. Half way through the ordeal, a Domino's pizza guy showed up with hamburger and extra cheese deep dish. Somebody turned on a radio that only picked up 8 different country stations and one local hip-hop community access station. Not to be outdone, someone else turned on Springer, and turned it up real loud to drown out the radio. When the doctor arrived, the quarreling parents tried to settle a bet by asking the doctor whether he preferred Keystone to Lone Star. This was not how I had planned on bonding with my new bride, new son and new family.

15 years ago, shortly after the birth of my first beloved child, an event occured that proves my point. At the behest of my (former) young bride, I was riding in a 25 mile bike event with her friends from her church. 3 miles into the "Branch Davidian Road Rally and Peanut Festival", new bride and new baby slide to a halt in momma's car right behind my bike. After we picked up our bent and mutilated bikes, and stopped the bleeding, new wife explains that she thinks precious little bundle of joy just had a seizure and what should she do now?

I fought the urge to respond by referencing the more obvious choice of driving to the emergency room, which she drove past on the way to find me, in the hopes that she could find a real physician instead of searching me out as I only played a physician when conversing with the entertainers at certain gentlemen's clubs. Instead, I pretended to look calm and cool while I frantically searched the eyes of the crowd around me looking for some clue as to what to do next. And at that moment, that was when I realized that I was the only father in the crowd. More importantly, I was dad to this little baby that maybe was ill. I was that dad, I had to make a decision with no reliable information, and everyone was watching me now to judge and evaluate how I handled this.

The baby was fine (at least for the first 12 years, after that child #1 has become possessed by the same demons that get all teen agers). I didnt get, and didn't deserve, a medal for how I handled that situation. I did my job as a dad, just like millions of other fathers do every day. We do that job of dad, and try not to screw the kids up too badly along the way. And others are always standing around, looking like empty-headed dumbasses, but they are all evaluating and judging our performance.

During the birth, that moment when husband and wife become mom and dad, sometimes new dad needs a little shove and needs to go through everything required to bring baby in for a smooth landing before giving the stork a little kick in the ass and sending him back to Babydom.

This little encounter with wife, sister-in-law and new daddy Johnny Law bothered me so that it became a heated encounter during the next session with the marriage counselor. The counselor, also of the "sit down to pee" persuasion settled the matter in her mind by concluding that, if the woman is pushing the baby out, she gets to choose who is in there with her, including the whole Ringling and Barnum Bros entourage if she wants.

Maybe so. Maybe dad isn't needed in the delivery room. Hell, if momma and her sister, or her momma, or the whole friggin village can bring the child into the world, maybe they can raise it without dad. Lord knows, dads these days are prone to make mistakes and my ex-wife will be the first to admit that she is error free when it comes to our kids.

Or maybe, just maybe, if dad is given half a chance, and sometimes a little nudge, he and momma and baby will all be just fine. Maybe the starting assumption should be that the delivery, at least the first one, is such a sacred moment between mom, dad and baby that no other non-medical folks are allowed, period. If good old Doc Slappy Nuts can make me turn off my camcorder during the actual delivery, he can damn sure keep Beulah the Chain Smoking mother-in-law out as well. But what the hell do I know, I am just Dad, and not too good at that by most accounts.

Paging Dr. Slappy Nuts, Dr. Slappy Nuts to delivery! It's crying again and we need to spank... Formerly Living.