Nobody can explain fatherhood

Being Frank/Frank Ameduri

It's funny how you get to thinking about things sometimes. Last night I was thinking about how much I miss my kids. It started with a conversation at work. One of my dearest friends is about to become a dad for the first time, and we were talking about the changes in store for him. I knew nothing I could say would prepare him for what was about to happen in his life. That's good. Fatherhood is something you have to figure out for yourself. It's scarier, but much more fun that way.

Earlier in the week I did online birthday shopping for my little girl. Her birthday is Feb. 1. She'll be nine. My son is 17. I usually only see the kids for extended stretches over the summer, and being apart from them is easily the toughest thing I've ever done. Some days are worse than others, but like any deep wound, there's always at least a dull ache.

After talking to my friend, I tried to remember what it was like just before Nyk, my son, was born. It's pronounced Nick, if you're wondering. I also tried to remember what it was like after his birth.

It's fair to say you can't have any idea what fatherhood is like until you're a dad. As we approached zero hour, I thought I had it all figured out. I'd seen every episode of "The Andy Griffith Show" and "The Courtship of Eddie's Father," and I was fashioning my game plan along those lines.

In the early going, I figured there would be a lot of tossing the baby into the air, bouncing the baby on a knee and teaching the baby how to walk and talk. I honestly had no idea that the baby would be born with a neck like a rubber band and that he wouldn't have the slightest interest in being tossed or bounced.

He spent most of his time attached to his mother's breast, crying, sleeping or making a mess in his diaper. It was quickly obvious that throwing him in the air was a very bad idea, so I just sort of looked at him a lot and changed diapers when it was my turn.

That's not to say I wasn't having fun. In fact, I had undergone an instant transformation when Nyk was delivered. Because I was largely incompetent, the doctor had given me the simple delivery room job of looking at the heart monitor and reporting if anything unusual turned up.

Just as they were delivering Nyk, someone else had the job of removing the sensor from the baby's scalp. That's when the monitor flatlined. Nyk's heart, of course, was ticking right along. Mine stopped. I don't know what Andy Taylor would have done, but I shrieked, "His heart stopped!" This was apparently bad form, since nobody was supposed to say anything that might upset the baby's mother.

"Shut up. He's fine," the doctor said. I thought it was a little rough, since nobody had warned me about the sensor thing, but, not wanting to seem self-absorbed, I held my tongue. The thing is, I had already transformed, though I didn't yet realize it.

It was stupid to think the baby's heart had stopped. It was uncool to scream in the delivery room. On the other hand, the idea that something might have happened to my son - whose face I had yet to see - triggered the worse panic I'd ever experienced to that point. That was something new.

When I held him the first time, I discovered that love was something different than I'd previously imagined. I realized that this small person was much more important than myself. I wasn't really much for praying, but that night I prayed that all the cuts, bruises, sickness and heartbreaks on Nyk's schedule could be shifted onto my calendar, instead.

I had already discovered it would be easier to endure those things myself than to watch him have to do it. Of course, that prayer couldn't be answered. Selfish prayers never can be. Nyk had to learn to deal with things on his own, and I had to learn to let him do it.

Nyk was going on eight when McKenzie was born. I had grown accustomed to being a Dad by then, and I figured the second kid would be a pretty minor change. I figured I already knew what to expect - no surprises. I knew the new baby would have a floppy neck and that it would be about a year before she'd be walking and a little longer than that before I'd be able to understand anything she was saying. It was going to be just like another Nyk. Of course, I was wrong.

The funny thing about babies is that they're a lot like people. Every one of them is a little different, and the way you feel about them is different, too. Nyk was a boy, and I was happy to have a boy. We played catch and basketball. He was my little buddy.

McKenzie was definitely not a boy. It didn't take long to figure out how fun it was going to be to have a Daddy's little girl around the house. When Nyk was born I imagined what it would be like to attend his sporting events or teach him to drive. When McKenzie was born I imagined that teen-age boys would someday come to my door wanting to take her to the movies. I didn't know who those boys might be, but I didn't much care for them. The transformation process happened all over again.

"Your whole life is going to change," people tell you before your first child is born. You think that means you won't be going out with your friends anymore, or that maybe you'll never get to buy another CD for yourself, or that you'll have to give up personal time.

That's not what changes, though. The changes are much more personal than that - much more meaningful. Your priorities will change. Suddenly you won't be at the center of any universe anymore, and that'll feel just fine.

You won't be able to explain why, but watching someone successfully use the toilet the first time will be more exciting than the Super Bowl. The first time you think your kid is missing, you'll discover that your capacity for panic is unlimited. One day your child will be scared or hurt, and he or she will run to you for solace. That's when you'll realize that comforting this little person is the most important thing you've ever done. That's how your whole life changes, but you can't take my word for it. It sounds silly and impossible until it happens to you.

I'm glad it's going to happen to my good friend. He's a big tough guy. Just the same, pretty soon he'll be sitting on the couch with a little girl in his arms and a big, stupid grin on his face. Then he'll be thinking, "Oh, so that's what he meant."

Frank Ameduri is a big softy, and what are you gonna do about it?