Father Figure(s)

Since looking at my OK Magazine has become a much less satisfying experience (see last week’s post, as to why) I’ve been spending more time reading a book I borrowed from the library titled, Raising Boys Without Men, which is a book describing a longitudinal study of single-mother and two-mother families with boy children. I’m only 2/3 of the way through, but I can now say with relative confidence that not only will everything be alright in regards to Django’s boyishness/manhood; it’s going to be great.

The author, Peggy Drexler, Ph.D., spends a lot of the first part of the book shoring up her credentials, her methodology, and her faithfulness to rigorous academic norms, all of which was lost on me really. I’m the skeptical type. No amount of prefacing will ever convince me someone’s opinion is to be trusted. I always take my proof from the pudding – which is not to say I don’t make leaps of faith, or biased judgment calls, but that’s a subject worthy of a whole different entry. I’ve come to believe what Dr. Drexler says, in part because of how completely sensible it is, and it part because of what an appropriate name she gives my/our kind of mothering: maverick.

Here is Webster’s definition of the word: mav·er·ick \’mav-rik\ n [Samuel A. Maverick , 1870 Am. Pioneer who did not brand his calves] (1867) 1 : an unbranded range animal; esp.: a motherless calf 2 : an independent individual who does not go along with a group or party.

Dr. Drexler doesn’t tell how she arrived at this particular label (yet, anyway) but it struck me for many reasons. First, it’s not a word you hear used very often, though it’s not really an ostentatious academic word – like, say, ostentatious. Second, it includes somewhat of a contrary definition. Third, I love the way it sounds, its cadence, its rhythm, its roll, as a word. Fourth, it doesn’t concede anything to the ‘other side,’ in that it doesn’t define us different mothers by using a term indicating something we have not. Fifth, and possibly most importantly, if your choice of word makes me think that much about how I like it and why you made it, you earn immediate points in my book.

I’m not prepared (yet, anyway) to explain all the reasons I feel so assured by Dr. Drexler’s optimistic assessment of the situation of “maverick mothers.” But I can relay the single most powerful – and I think unassailable – conclusion I’ve absorbed from my reading so far: boys who do not have an everyday father in the home to emulate have more freedom to choose their male role models. We all know that the freedom to choose can mean the freedom to make good choices as well as poor ones, but in and of itself I believe having a choice is better than not having one.

Without question, I will be working overtime to find and share with Django excellent males after whom he might model his own philosophy and behavior. Luckily, the world at large contains plenty of exemplary men. Our personal world is already graced by at least a dozen: Mike Daillak, Mike Nelson (Photo 1,visiting at his place) Mike Gaitley (Photo 2, hiking down from the Mountain Play), Mike Dragovich, Mike Greenberg – no, they’re not all named Mike – Brad, Joey, Julian, Charly, Gunner, Uncle Steve, Uncle Jon, Tad…and plenty more in the wings, behind the scenes, and as-yet-undiscovered. Plus, I know from working with under-served kids so many years now, you don’t even need that many to make a difference in a boy’s life. All it takes is a few good men. Sometimes just one.

Turnabout Is Fair Play?

I’ve been feeling a little put-upon lately. The rabbits have been eating my OK Magazines. Sometimes, it’s that 5 minutes of “reading” celebrity trash that helps me quiet my mind enough to go to sleep at night. It’s just not the same enjoyable and relaxing experience once Honeybun’s had her way with the thing.

Admittedly, I do things that probably annoy the rabbits, as well. For example, I make them play Grab-a-Rabbit with the baby every morning. This is a game I made up, but you can easily play it at your house, too. All you need is one baby, three rabbits, and a bag of mini-carrots, or handful of grapes, or bits of banana, i.e., anything rabbits think is delicious. Here’s how to play. Sit the baby down on the floor, click your tongue to call the rabbits, hold the treats as tight as you can -- and as near to the baby as you can -- then just watch all the fun!

Don’t worry, Django rarely gets a hold of a rabbit, though sometimes he attempts to share in their treats. Since he doesn’t have any teeth yet, he doesn’t usually have much success at that, either. Poor thing. Still, it’s really a hoot to watch him try.

Daddy 5704

For me, choosing a man with whom to conceive a child wasn’t near as onerous of a task as it may sound. When you think about it, most people don’t really “choose” at all. They fall in love, or have a lapse in contraceptive judgment – or both. Those of us who’ve had to use a sperm bank, though, arguably suffer from the problem of too many choices and too much information. We end up knowing more about the potential fathers of our children than some men, or women for that matter, know about themselves.

But even though the choice of sperm donor wasn’t such a difficult one, it wasn’t one I made recklessly, either. I thought of it more like choosing to grow a garden. I knew, in the end, the seed would be much less important than the soil, the climate and the caretaking of the plants. But here’s the big difference, I doubt there are any gardeners out there who ever think to themselves: Yeah, these seeds look great. But what about someone else having the same tomatoes as me? How do I feel about that?

Personally, I didn’t give much thought to the idea of other children by the donor I chose. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, I couldn’t. Just like I can’t give much thought to the dangers of walking alone in the city at night, or the idea of terrorists poisoning the water supply, or the possibility that I might ever be in a position to outlive Django. Some things, if you think about them too much, just plain paralyze you. They don’t do you any good...So I only briefly thought about Django having half-siblings elsewhere in the world. If they existed, or ever would exist, in my mind they seemed really far away.

You can imagine my surprise then, when – in one whirlwind of a weekend – I received emails from the moms of two other Donor #5704 babies. They weren’t just far away ideas; they’re real! And they’re beautiful, curly-haired, bright-eyed, curious, happy and outgoing little people, with moms who love them very, very, very, very, very, very much.

After riding an unexpectedly fast rollercoaster of emotion about it all, I landed right back where I started – feeling unspeakably blessed and lucky. Now Django will know, in the most concrete of terms, that there are others like him. Many others, perhaps. A select few of them, very much like him. To me that means there’s even less chance Django will feel isolated and alone because of my well-intended-yet-self-centered decision to bring him into this world without an everyday father. And that warms my heart.

We don’t know each other very well yet, but I am hereby pleased (and authorized) to introduce you to our extended donor-sibling family -- as pictured above, from top to bottom:

CCB #5704: A.k.a., "Daddy" (Photo 1)

DJANGO: You know already. (Photo 2)

SABINE: 19-months old now (Photo 4); 8-months old then (Photo 3); lives with her moms, Judi & Jenn, in Park City, Utah; loves to talk, play tricks & name animal sounds; turns red when she eats strawberries, and simply refuses to eat cakes & pies (!!!); looks especially cute when crawling in blue tunnels.

ALEX: 12-months old now (Photo 6); 6-months old then (Photo 5); lives in Washington, D.C., with his mom, Marni; loves swimming, tickling the ivories, and approaching strangers with cell phones at outdoor concerts; would rather dance & fingerpaint than eat a lot of solid food; knows how to get people to sing for him by using his sign language; looks especially cute when swinging.

Lovely Day

Django is 6 months old today. He weighs 19.5 lbs., is almost 28 in. long -- and I have laughed and smiled more since he’s been born than probably in the last 10 years combined. Now I get it. That’s why people have kids. Forget the idea of posterity, evolution, divine will, the whole notion of family – the bottom line is, it’s fun. And the kind of joy it brings you is the kind that trumps pretty much every other of life’s annoyances.

For example, Friday morning Django managed to pee in his own mouth while I was changing him on the changing table. I doubled-over with laughter. It was hilarious. I went on to be late to work, forget my breast-pump parts, leave my coffee sitting at home when I went back to retrieve my breast-pump parts, and drop my cinnamon roll in the crosswalk. That was all before arriving at work. The work day didn’t get much better, either. But all day, my mind kept wandering back to Django’s earlier antics, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Every time he makes a big toothless grin while he has food all over his face, every time his eyes light up when I come around to take him out of the car seat, every time he wraps his little limbs around me like a koala holding onto a eucalyptus tree, every time I wake up and he’s nose to nose with me and babbling happily, every time he giggles at the rabbits tickling him with their whiskers… every time I think about him – I feel warm and happy. I feel bathed in love.

But Bill Withers said it before me, and said it best: ...I know it's going to be, a Lovely Day.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DnUxLISFcA&feature=related