Sons

    " To become a father is not difficult, to be a father is."

                                                                     
My oldest son, Nick, will be turning eighteen in two months. Seems like just yesterday when I stood in the delivery room, my heart pounding out of my heart, as I watched him being born and gulping his first lungfuls of air. He had a full head of black hair and the face of a wise old man. Nick was born in an Army hospital, and he spent the first five years of his life seeing his Dad come in and out of his little world. He was always interested in the big guy with the crew cut who wore the funny clothes, and it was fun rough-housing with him, but he  always seemed to be packing his bags and then leaving unexpectedly. Mommy was a lot more reliable and she smelled much better to boot. When I came home after the First Gulf War to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina,  Nick was three years old at the time. I remember peeking through the window of the bus at him standing in the parking lot patiently next to my wife, Anna.  Nick was a little tentative at first as he watched me kiss his mother and then decided it was OK to jump into my arms. He followed me for the next three days from room to room, never allowing me out of his sight.  Like a cuddly  little puppy, he'd crawl into my lap at the first available opportunity.  Nick's first word was not mama or dada. It was "Manga."  Manga, or "tough guy" in Greek,  was a big, gentle, giant of a Labrador Retriever who Nick  used as a personal  cushion. I can see the two of them now, walking side by side as Nick yelled, " Manga, Manga."  Every so often the dog would wag his big thick tail hitting Nick, pushing him off balance and sending him tumbling to the floor, laughing, whereupon Manga would lick the best smelling face in the family, clean.

When Nick was four, he was presented with a baby brother named Chris. Chris wasn't  exactly the sister he had been promised, then again he looked like he might be fun anyway. Chris and his brother Nick were polar opposites. Nick was a whirling dervish who loved people. Chris was pensive, lay back, and only loved his mother and the girl next door, Victoria.  Chris  and Victoria, who were almost the same age, were inseparable. On Saturday mornings Chris would often  sound reveille by bellowing, "VEETTORIA" at regular intervals. They were quite a couple and I still remember Chris eating his birthday cake during his third birthday and swiping a piece of Victoria's as well whenever she wasn't looking. After all, love is no substitute for cake and ice cream.

Back in the days when Nick and Chris were little guys I really looked forward to the reception I used to get when I came home from work. No matter how bad things might have gotten that day it would all melt away when they would come running down the driveway and climb all over me. That was back in the days of hugs and kisses. Dad was all knowing, faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound and bend steel with his bare hands. Nowadays things are a little different. When I come home I usually get a lukewarm "Hi, Dad"  if I'm lucky, unless of course there is an important issue to discuss which invariably involves a financial matter or automobiles. Father and son discussions are also a little different now, the boys don't hang on my every word and they tend to roll their eyes when I say something particularly erudite.

Nick has never been a young man that was afraid to venture out into the cold, cruel world beyond. His first day of school was instructive. My wife, Anna, who is the quintessential Greek mommy, had laid everything out, new school clothes, cute little shoes, a backpack and a lunch box  filled with a nutritious balanced meal for three kids.  She planned to chauffeur him to school and help him negotiate his first uncertain moments at school. Unbeknownst to her, the yellow school bus unexpectedly pulled up right in front of our home. Nick took one look, immediately grabbed his trash, kicked the screen door open, and ran directly to the waiting bus. He looked back, waved and said:  "Bye Momma, Bye  Daddy,"  just as the door of the school bus closed shut behind him. All Anna could do was wave, smile bravely and cry on my shoulder as the bus drove away. Sometimes it's the parents who aren't quite ready for the first day of school.

Raising kids is probably the toughest job anyone can have. The challenges are numerous, some tougher on parents than others. When Chris was five he ran a high fever on and off for three days. We finally decided it was time to take him to see our pediatrician. "Just a virus," was the verdict, but two days later the fever still had not abated. They decided to draw blood and do a blood count. When the results came back, the doctor, visibly uncomfortable,  informed us that Chris had to be admitted to the Naval Hospital at Portsmouth, Virginia as soon as possible. His white cell count was dangerously low.  "We need to start him on IV antibiotics,"  she said, "He may have Leukemia."   I cannot describe what I felt when I heard that word.  At that moment I was more afraid than I had ever been in my entire life.  Anna was fighting back the tears as she held Chris. On the way to the hospital Nick, who was nine years old at the time,  could sense our palpable fear and  was asking if everything was going to be OK. The next few days were  torture for us.  For the first time in my life, things were careening out of control.  All I could think of to do was to pray and to call our parish priest, Father George Paulson, who rushed over to pray with us and pray over Chris. The next day his white count started going up. He was finally released from the hospital and went home where he resumed his "regular" activities. After a few months, the doctors chalked it all up to a viral illness which had finally run its course.  I chalked it up to a miracle.

Chris is a teenager now. The little guy who use to run around with ice cream all over his face is just a memory now. Chris is a straight A student who has decided that he wants a career in emergency medicine and live in New York City. A few weeks ago I went to his school to pick him up in my car. Chris came through the front entrance of the school followed by a crowd of other middle schoolers. As I spied him in the crowd I waved and yelled "Hey, Chris over here."  Chris turned white as a sheet, continued moving past me and whispered, "Dad please get in the car now and let's get out of here."   Oops, another parental faux pas.   On the way home Chris explained that next time he would prefer that I not get out of the car and if possible park somewhere inconspicuously. Ahuh. I nodded. "I guess a hug would be out of the question?"  He looked at me smiling, feeling sorry for the old man and replied, "Dad, I still love you, just not in public."

Comments

[FreeCyprus]

Hell of a good post Stavros. You have a great way of getting your feelings across.

[drmom]

Great post Steve! Are you working on 10/20? We're passing through the area and I'll stop by with the girls if you're around!

[Stavros]

I'm at the Sanford office that day. Just let me know where you will be and we'll meet there, it's easier for me to travel than you with the kids. Glad you enjoyed the post, now you've been warned what to expect.