fatherhood

En este momento de mi vida el tema de la paternidad está definitivamente instalado en el centro de mis pensamientos cotidianos. No quiero decir que antes no pensaba tanto en Agustín sino que ahora evalúo y analizo y cuestiono más que antes el tema en el abstracto, que figura quiero ser, cómo estoy con él, qué impacto tengo en su vida y él en la mía.

De casualidad caí en el sitio de Esquire y leí una nota cortita en la línea de "cómo ser buen padre" y me hizo reflexionar. Tiene un tono de todo-lo-que-pensás-que-sabés-está-mal, pero de un modo constructivo. Bien carpe diem, disfrutá del acá y ahora.

Estoy definitivamente de acuerdo, eso intento. Disfrutar de mi hijo ahora.

Descubriendo la hora, reloj de regalo de tía abuela

Veremos si Esquire tiene razón:

I hate new fathers. Bunch of arrogant know-it-alls, smug in what they clearly perceive to be the singular glow of the creation of their loins. You have to look at the baby, "talk" to their toddler. I just want to shake them -- those fathers. I want to tell them: Kids get hurt. Kids get sick. Kids make bad, bad choices. Don't smile at me knowingly when we pass in the park just because you can afford a really expensive European stroller. You don't have a clue.

The expectation of safety and normalcy? Forget that stuff. Put it out of your mind. To be a good father, you have to give up the expectation of a payoff. Forget trophies and medals. Forget report cards, even. You have to observe. You have to listen. You are a large figure in this person's life. No getting around that. With each year that passes, allow yourself the possibility of becoming smaller. This both protects them and teaches you. And don't be overly proud of your own parental habits. You'll get your chance to tell it like it is, to lay down the law. Fathers do. Just don't relish that, because that shit can snap you in half when it backfires, and you will be old when it does, and so will they. Old enough to wander away.

When I look at pictures of myself as a young father -- joyfully lifting my son by one arm at a picnic somewhere, indifferently sleeping with him on a long-gone couch, watching, arms folded, as he played soccer -- I think what a dope I was. I remember that I thought it would be easier when I didn't have to change diapers, or that I'd have more time for myself once they were in school, or that things would be much better once the younger one outgrew his asthma. What was my rush? Why did I want time to pass? Why did I even want to hope for change? I had a son. Then I had another one. I should have opened my eyes wider every day to snap myself out of the torpor of pride and pleasure; I should have used every day to think about what I didn't know about being a father. And I should have sat there awhile in stillness, flush in the lessons provided by the company of my sons, then -- as now -- the most quarrelsome and deep pleasure I'll ever know.