I’ve got three kids. Adam, my oldest, was born on my twenty-fifth birthday. I came into fatherhood without a lot of knowledge because I didn’t exactly have a good example. In fact, the only advice that I ever got on parenting came from my friend Steve who said,
“Raising kids is just like making pancakes. You always mess up the first one.”
Gee, that’s comforting. Thank you very much. I appreciate that.
Adam was four years old and we were in the minivan. I was driving. Adam sat in the back strapped in his little car seat. I saw in the rearview mirror that he was cutting his eyes at me. I let it go. I’m the anti-Sylvester. He’d better not stick his lip out.
We were on our way to the hobby shop to get Adam some finger paints. As if he didn’t have enough crap at home to make it a mess, I was now actually going out to buy shit to bring home to make the house messy.
We went into this San Leandro hobby shop that I loved. I dig hobby shops and this one was really cool. It was a cavern filled with radio-controlled cars and helicopters, and model airplanes, rockets, sailboats, and railroads. It was a magical place. With a little imagination my son and I could be anything that we wanted to be. We were race-car drivers and astronauts, chopper pilots and engineers. For me, the hobby shop was always a portal for dreams.
Adam was at least as excited as I was as he ran up and down the aisles. He suddenly stopped to study a scale model of a B-1 Bomber.
“Daddy, what are those things coming out of the back of the airplane?”
“They’re bombs.”
“Bombs? What are they for?”
I pondered the appropriate response for a four-year-old before blurting out, “Making defense contractors rich. Now, come on. Let’s go get your finger paints.”
I had been reading all of this stuff about how war toys make little boys more aggressive, so I wouldn’t even let him have those little green plastic army men that burned so well when I was a kid. Ah, memories.
It’s really important to me to be a good dad. I figure that since Sylvester was such a horrible, fucked-up individual, if I can just do the opposite of what he did, I’ll be like Cosby and Fred MacMurray all rolled into one. I do things that Sylvester didn’t do, like coming home from the store.
He didn’t work so I work a lot. He didn’t spend time with his kids, so I do.
Adam got his finger paints and we were up at the cash register where I was fishing for my credit card to pay, when I noticed that Adam was mesmerized by a display model of a dollhouse.
“My ONLY son is fascinated by a dollhouse!!”
I thought, “Maybe I need to rethink this war toys position ofmine.”
I stopped myself. “No, no. I’m a tolerant Bay Area parent. I’m a tolerant Bay Area parent. I’ll keep saying it to myself until I actually believe it. I’m a tolerant Bay Area parent and it’s important for him to grow up and be comfortable with himself.”
I took a look at the object of his intense curiosity and . . . it was a pretty cool dollhouse. It was a two-story colonial with a living room and a formal dining room. It had a winding staircase with a gold banister that led up to three bedrooms and two full baths.
Shit, it was nicer than my house. I wanted to move into it.
Next to the dollhouse were all of the little accessories. There was furniture, little pets, and packages of families. Two packages of families. One black. One white. Adam got really quiet.
We were back in the minivan headed home and Adam still hadn’t said a word.
“So, you excited about your finger paints, buddy?” I asked. “You’re gonna have a lot of fun with those.”
“Yeah,” Adam said, looking at his feet as they dangled loosely over the edge of his car seat. “Daddy, are you gonna get a dollhouse for Carolyn?”
Carolyn is my daughter. She was about two years old at the time.
“She’s a little young, yet. When she’s older, we’ll see.”
“If you do,” he said, “can you get the white family and not the brown family?”
My brain froze. It was as if it were a hot day and I’d tried to drink a Slurpee a little too fast.
“The white family? Why?” I managed to sputter.
“Because,” he said still gazing at his little blue Converse All Stars.
“Because why?”
“Because brown people are bad,” he said.
We’d never talked about race before. Where the hell did this come from??
“Who told you that brown people were bad, son?” I asked.
“My friend Tommy; his daddy told him. Brown people are bad.” He finally looked up from his shoes, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Am I bad, Daddy?”
My eyes stung. They were watering.
“Of course not. You’re a very good boy. I’m very proud of you,” I whispered.
He got a slight look of relief on his face that quickly changed to concern.
“Are you bad, Daddy?”
How does a father answer a question like that?
“Not today.” I smiled.
That was quick. Unfortunately not quick enough to ward off his anxiety.
“Daddy, I don’t want to be brown! I don’t want to be bad!” he yelled.
I had to throw up.
We got home and went into the house.
“Daddy, will you finger paint with me?” he asked.
“No, pal. Daddy doesn’t feel well.”
I ran upstairs to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before I puked my guts out. He was FOUR YEARS OLD FOR GOD’S SAKE. This kid Tommy was four, too. Is this where it starts? Is this how it starts?
“Daddy, will you finger paint with me now?” Adam said.
I felt the molasses engulfing me.
“No, pal. Daddy doesn’t feel well.”
“Honey, dinner’s ready,” my wife shouted.
“You guys go on ahead. I’m not hungry.”
“Daddy, will you take me to school today?” Adam asked.
“No, pal. Your mom will take you. Daddy feels sad . . . I mean sick. Daddy feels sick.”