Familyhood (4 page)

And it's not just me, either. NASA spent a lot of money taking photos and filming their trips. Understandably; if you go to the moon, it'd be nice to see a picture. Well, apparently, they lost a whole bunch of film from the moon landings. This is NASA we're talking about, not me. They captured the moment—they just can't remember where they put it.

A YEAR OR TWO AGO,
I actually dug into the thousand million hours of home videos we'd accumulated over the years and decided to make a “greatest hits” video for my wife for Mother's Day. I spent weeks and weeks clandestinely selecting and editing video clips and finding just-the-right songs to go with it (because there's a fine line between getting someone a little teary-eyed and putting them in the hospital). When it was all done, I'm going to be honest with you: It came out pretty darn well. She loved it as much as I knew she would.

Though above and beyond the joy of watching her watch it (which was enough of a reward for me, frankly), I also had the singular experience of having sifted through all that stuff to begin with. Literally thousands of hours of video that included—but was not limited to: virtually every hour of the first six months of each of our children's lives, every birthday party, every holiday, every visit, every vacation, every new pair of pants my boys tried on—you name it, we had it recorded, labeled, and somewhere in a shoebox. But until I decided to make that video I had never looked at any of it. Other than when I shot it and wanted to check that the battery was working, I had never seen this stuff. And as dull as 99 percent of it is—sorting through the out-of-focus, blurry, herky-jerky parts, and the long patches where you were unaware the camera was running and unintentionally recorded hours on end of your own thigh—when you get past that, there is indeed spectacular treasure to be mined.

ONE DAY
we were trying to clean out a packed-to-the-rafters closet at home and we came across an old box of photos. Some from the recent past—my kids as infants, toddlers, preschoolers—and some from life before they were here. The early years of our marriage. And the years leading up to that; the dating, the single years, our college years, our own childhood birthday parties. Boy, did our kids love looking through those pictures! Making fun of our bad haircuts and horrendous fashion choices, how undeniably corny we look waving and posing everywhere, how clichéd our family get-togethers look on camera—like Norman Rockwell if his family overate and squabbled and hated being photographed.

The hour or so that we sat on the floor of that closet—a full family doing something as organic, unforced, and joyful as going through family pictures and telling the stories—was one of the sweetest times I can recall ever spending. The sorting through memorialized golden moments was becoming itself a
new
golden moment. One that should probably itself be memorialized.

As I stood to get my camera—to get a photo of my family looking at photos—my wife and children turned to me with a collective look of disappointment. In the heartbeat that it took to register the look, I sensed that it wasn't the usual irritated “Daaadd, wouldya cut it out!” It wasn't a response of annoyance. It was something deeper, and more generous. This was them appealing to me for my benefit. This was “Why would you get up and leave this when this is so wonderfully perfect?”

And they were right; sometimes it
is
better to leave the tender moment alone.

The Car Door Ding

I
wouldn't say
I'm a great driver. I'm certainly a very
safe
driver—just not particularly good. For example, I tend to park by
sound
. I use the sound of me hitting something to indicate it's now time to go the other way. Those cement things that you're supposed to stop in front of? I stop
on
them. “Plenty of room, plenty of room, plenty of room—BOOM—okay, no more room.”

So, consequently, my car always has an impressive array of scrapes, dings, scratches, and plastic things dangling unattractively. And I never rush to fix them, because I'm pretty confident I'm just going to bang them up again anyway, so why bother?

Plus, it's just not that big a deal to me. But it really does bother
other
people, I've noticed. I see strangers very unkindly pointing and ridiculing. They don't think I hear them, but I do. “Look at that car! There's a person who clearly has no regard for himself or anyone else, either. Look at that bumper! Disgusting! If he treated his dog like that, we'd report the sicko!”

Of course, it's
not
a dog. It's a car. But, nonetheless, when the pointing and ridiculing gets too severe, and I notice my wife and children slumping down in the seats, disassociating themselves from both the car and me, I will, in the name of community—and family—harmony, bring the car in and get things cleaned up.

NOT LONG AGO,
I did just that. As I pulled into the repair shop, the guy who owns the place stood outside, rubbing his hands together with glee, knowing that whatever dentistry he'd been putting off for his kids would soon be amply funded by what he was about to charge me.

When it was done, the car looked terrific. Like new. I was surprisingly happy—for a guy who doesn't really care about these things. The guy from the shop was beyond happy; he actually wept a little from joy. (Apparently his youngest daughter had an overbite.)

“God bless ya,” he called after me as I pulled away. “And keep driving!”

A FEW DAYS LATER,
I'm taking my son to school, and as we get into the car, I notice a brand-new ding—smack in the middle of the driver's door.

“Ah, man . . . look at that! I haven't even
been
anywhere. When could that have happened? I literally came home, parked it in the garage, and now, somehow,
this
!”

My son, sweet kid, seemed upset that I was so upset. I backpedaled.

“Ahh, it's not a big deal,” I tell him. “It's just that . . . I just paid to have all these little things buffed out and . . . Daddy's just a little upset.” (I swore at the beginning of fatherhood I'd never talk about myself in the third person like that. But—it hasn't worked out.)

For his benefit, I felt the need to clarify that cars are only
things
, and
things
are not important. (But, to be honest, when things
happen
to our things, it can be very annoying.)

“I just don't understand
how
it happened,” I continue minutes later, only to immediately brush it away.

“Okay, okay—never mind. It's done. No big deal.”

We drive another two blocks, and apparently I can't let it go.

“You know what I mean?” I say, bringing it up now for the third time. “It's the
timing
of it. Why couldn't that have happened
before
I got everything fixed?”

Poor kid has no answer. (And, really, why should he? This was a very deep existential question I was asking—“Why do things happen as they do?” If he'd
had
the answer to that, I imagine I'd have been frightened.)

“I'll tell you this, though,” I continue, now good and worked up, my face frozen in a marginally crazy man's smile. “I'm not going back and fixing it again. Unh unh. Not doing it. I'll just live with it, right?”

“Right,” my son sweetly agrees.

“I mean, if God wanted us to have perfectly nice car doors, He wouldn't have made
other
drivers. Or cars that park right next to us and bang their doors into
my
door—the
day after I just got it fixed
, right? Right!”

Okay. Done. Not talking about it anymore. Look how nicely I've moved on. And my son, bless his heart, was terrifically patient throughout all my obsessing. And kind enough to never bring it up.

A FULL TWO WEEKS LATER,
I'm getting into the car, this time with my wife, and she hears me muttering.

“What'd you say?” she asks, helpfully.

“Huh? Oh, nothing—just . . . this
stupid dent
. I just . . . I'd love to know how it happened.”

“I know how,” she says, slightly pained.

And then, with some reluctance—but not
that much
reluctance—she gives up our son. The very son who was sooooo sensitive to my being upset about the dent in the first place.

“
He
did it?!” I ask, truly disbelieving.

She nods to confirm.

“No way!” I say. “He was in the car with me when I was all upset about it. Surely he would have said something then, don't you think?”

My wife looked at me with that certain loving sadness that only she is allowed to have. It has to do with what she perceives as my limited and, apparently, naïve understanding of human nature.

“Are you sure?” I ask rhetorically.

“Yes, I'm sure. I was there. He opened
my
car door and it hit
your
door. He felt really bad about it.”

“Well, why wouldn't he just say something?” I ask.

“Because. He was afraid you'd be upset.”

HERE'S WHAT I KNOW
about our precious little guy: he's the sweetest, loveliest boy, who also has, over the years, become one of the finest liars in the world. Well, maybe
liar
is a bit harsh. How about
fibber
? He's become a consummate
fibber
. An impressively skilled
bender of the truth
. A
creative manipulator
of the facts. Skilled in the art of
reenvisioning
. Yeah, that's better. Much nicer than calling him a
liar
. (But you and I both know what I'm saying here.)

The boy is a brilliant practitioner of the deceptive arts. He reveals nothing. Gone are the days of “It was already broken when I got here.” No more the humorously inept, badly played denials of an amateur; that would be his older brother.

My older boy is so endearingly bad at lying it's impossible to get upset about it. “Did you finish your homework?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Um . . . Okay, no, I didn't.”

He has never made it past the first volley of interrogation.

But his younger brother has the gift. If deception was a recognized sport, he could already turn pro. He is Hall of Fame material.

Playing back in my mind our conversation that day when I discovered the ding in my car door, I couldn't believe he'd had the fortitude to sit there and keep a straight face.

“He was scared,” his mother explains to me.

“Of what?

“Okay, well, maybe not ‘scared' so much as embarrassed.”

That
I understood. I live most of my life trying to avoid ever being embarrassed. In a heartbeat, I go from being mad to thinking, “poor little guy.” I reconsidered.

“Okay. I'm going to go talk to him and tell him it's okay, and that next time, all he has to—”

“Oh, no,” my wife says, dead serious. “No, no—you can't.”

“I can't what?”

“You can't talk to him.”

“Ever?”

“About this. You can't tell him you know. I promised I wouldn't tell you.”

Suddenly I'm living a
Law & Order
episode. I've got information I can't use, from an informant whose identity I can't reveal.

“Okay. How long should I give him, do you think?”

“Let him come to it on his own,” his wise mother says. “In
his
own time.”

Fair enough. In fact, now I'm liking this. The mystery of how it happened has been solved—and that's what was bothering me as much as anything. And furthermore, my son is working through some important character-building work under the tutelage of his loving (albeit complicit) mother and his ever-patient father. Love it.

A DAY GOES BY.
A week. Clock dials whip around in fast motion, calendar pages fly by, the Germans are on the march . . . T y Cobb hits a single, women get the vote . . . Time has passed, I'm saying.

“Honey,” I say to my wife, “I don't think he's so much coming to me.”

“He will—in his own time,” she reminds me.

“Yes,” I argue, “but
his time
may be in his mid-sixties. I may not be alive for his time. I'm just going to bring it up.”

She's adamant.

“You
can not
do that! You will violate my trust with him. I promised I wouldn't tell you.”

“But you
did
tell me.”

“Yes, but he doesn't know that.”

I begin to lose my moral compass.

“But surely he knows you and I tell each other everything, right?”

“Of course, but—”

“I mean, except for the entire week when you actually
didn't
tell me, but—”

“The point
is
. . .” she says, growing increasingly unhappy with me. “Fine. Do what you want to do.”

“I will.”

“Just know that if you tell him you know, he will never trust me again, and I will never share anything with you again.”

You still with me, folks? My
son
lied to
me
, my wife
prolonged
that lie, and now I have to maintain that lie (feigning ignorance, and if asked, lying
further
by swearing that Mom told me nothing) because if I
don't
maintain that lie, my wife will have no choice but to continually lie to me in the future—presuming, of course, that our son is honest enough with his mother to perpetuate their Union of Deceit, the core doctrine of which is to lie to
me
.

AND THIS IS HOW
a “lie” is magically transformed, through love and the bonds of family, into a “teachable moment.” Together, my wife and I can teach our children the virtue of honesty by being really precise about our lies.

I decide to honor my son's process (and my wife's vicious threat) and
not
bring up the dented car door. But now, knowing what I know, I have to do
something.
So I devise a brilliant plan of entrapment whereby I will “just happen to mention” related subjects over the course of the day, in the hopes that I will create such a friendly and nurturing environment that my son will feel safe enough and loved enough to unload his burden. (Or feel so guilty he'll snap like an autumn twig. I'm good either way, frankly.)

Day One of Operation Subtlety. We're all in the kitchen. I'm at the refrigerator. With my back to the family, and to “no one in particular,” I casually offer, “You know, I almost got a ticket today.” (That I am
lying
at this moment is immaterial. I'm trying to teach a lesson about honesty here.) “Yeah, silly me. I kinda rolled through a stop sign, but—listen to this: when I told the policeman I was sorry, and I would try really hard to make sure I never did it again, he let me go. Nice, huh? Man, I'll tell ya . . . It sure feels good to tell the truth, doesn't it?”

My wife looks at me as if to say, “You are perhaps the worst actor I've ever seen.”

My older son wants more info about my moving violation. I make up more bogus details to keep the charade alive.

My younger son, the defendant, says nothing. Reveals nothing. A will of iron. I begin to actually fear him. I make a note to hide my wallet deeper in my sock drawer.

Day Two. I try again, this time electing to show him by example. I will demonstrate firsthand the proper technique of transparency and conciliatory soul-baring.

“I just want to tell you,” I say, my hand lovingly on his shoulder, “I accidentally finished that cookie with the vanilla frosting. I forgot you were saving that. I'm really sorry.” (Long pause, huge dramatic exhale.) “Whew!
That
feels better! Glad I got that off my chest.”

I wait for it. And . . .
nothing
. No confession, no hug around the neck, no soliloquy about what an exceptional person I must be to be that forthcoming, what a great parent I am . . .
nothing
. In fact, he is now annoyed about the cookie.

“Geez Dad! I mean, if you hadn't told me I probably wouldn't have even noticed, but now I'm really upset.”

Okay, so that's oh-for-two. The kid is hanging tough.

Over the next few days, I try a few more broad hints, horribly awkward associations, and elaborately fabricated tales.

“You know, son, that's like the time I broke my grandfather's favorite glass eye and felt just awful about it . . . And you know . . . he died before I could ever tell him about it. It haunts me to this day.”

I almost manage to make myself cry. But from him? Nothing. The boy was unbreakable. The ultimate prisoner of war, this guy.

I decide to let it go. So what if I don't get the admission I was hoping for. So what if there's no tangible magic moment between us. Surely he's learned his lesson, and isn't that all that matters?

SEVERAL DAYS LATER,
I can't find my cell phone. And that's uncommon. I always put it in the exact same spot when I get home, and I've encased it in a horrendous fluorescent green plastic cover for just this purpose. It stands out in a crowd. The kind of color that would help you find your phone if lost at sea. But the phone is nowhere to be found.