I haven’t done a Sober Parenting essay in a few months, but I got the opportunity to revisit an old one after Kevin Maguire, the editor and creator of a uniquely beautiful parenting site called The New Fatherhood, invited me over for a collaboration. But calling The New Fatherhood a parenting or even a dad-centric site minimizes the scope of his work there. (This mental health deep-dive is super solid.)
Being a dad late in life and especially in early sobriety came with a unique set of challenges, but the biggest, most glaring one for me was… me. Not many people had faith in me, ya know, sticking with it since I hadn’t proven very adept at the whole “stick–to–itiveness” thing. When I informed one of my old high school friends that I was a brand new dad, it was met with a very worried laugh and then, “I just can’t picture it.”
I knew what they meant, but in my defense, can anyone remotely picture it until it happens? It’s an insane process wherein a real professionally run hospital sends you home with a living thing without any operating instructions besides a scratchy blue and pink striped swaddle towel and a hearty “Good luck!” That first car ride home from the hospital with a poorly installed baby seat, driving like 12 miles per hour, was a level of terror I did not want to repeat, but I did it three different times for three little froggy-legged babies, and it wasn’t even the most terrifying thing, not by a long shot. And I never wanted a drink the entire time I’ve been a parent, so much as I was aware of the empty spaces of time before and after terror where I would need one.
Of course, it is also exhilarating and wonderful in all the wonderful ways, and I’m thrilled I get to be here for it. I get to be a human who makes human mistakes, and I get to remember that my children are tinier humans who are even less skillful in their behaviors and emotions. And I have not been drunk for any of it. Phew.
Today’s remixed essay, “What We Call Courage,” was one I wrote two years ago after I took my then 4-year-old to his first kid birthday party, something I’d been dreading because I convinced myself that every single parent there would offer me a beer or wine or some celebrity-backed tequila with glowing rubies in it and my polite refusal will murder the vibe. I’m better—slightly. But slightly better is enough for today. — AJD
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Now let’s get to it.
What We Call Courage
Since the first minute our first child was in this world, and I held him to my chest, I've been anxious about interacting with other parents, specifically his classmate's parents. So far, I have avoided uncomfortable run-ins during afternoon pick-ups. I can handle 12 seconds of hi-how-are-yas with some of the other dads, but that's about it. Anything beyond that, I start to dance around and look at the sky in search of exotic flocks of birds or wayward parachutists.
So when Meaty got invited to a classmate's 5th birthday party last week, I thought Julieanne would take the hit. She knows my hang-ups about these sorts of things, but she was occupied with the other two children and work, so I had to go. I’ll fully admit I prayed for a small earthquake or maybe some frightening Santa Ana winds, nothing too destructive but just enough to cancel the party out of "an abundance of caution." I also admit I took a Covid test that morning and prayed for a false positive—no such luck.
I know: why does a child's 5th birthday party cause me so much anxiety? I convinced myself after the minute our oldest, Meaty, was born that parents only want to interact with other parents when they’re loaded. And since I am sober, no one will ever talk to me.
Then there's the added element of my specific insecurity about Los Angeles parents. I pictured this five-year-old's birthday party would be a mind-bending spectacle, well-attended by tall people with good jawlines and impressive vascularity who could handle gallons of booze and probably multiple edibles with ease. There would be a bouncy castle the size of a hot air balloon—a marionette show inspired by Nithya Raman. Alpaca rides. White Claw snow cones for the adults. Steve Aoki would be spinning tunes from "Encanto." And I…would be sober. “No thanks, no snow cones for me!” I will tell all the good-looking LA parents I'm driving–now and forever–I'm driving.
Then my son and the rest of my children and their children's children would all be blackballed until one of them could prove they could do a proper keg stand.
I am sad and ridiculous for these thoughts, but I assure you I’m striving to be a kind and fascinating human someday.
******
Even though he's still four, my son is very self-assured. The first couple of days of school, he had some meltdowns, but he found his way, charmed the teachers, and made some friends. Now he loves school and it also appears that he loves the spotlight. So he wanted to go to this party. I wish he weren't so well-adjusted, but what can you do?
I promised I’d shut down the voices in my head and would go to the party for his sake because, even though I’m a trembling mess, I'm not ready to let him down yet.
It was a beautiful day, not too hot, and I decided I wouldn't worry about what I wore too much because I thought I'd probably sweat all over it anyway. Besides, if I wore beat-up jeans, a hat, and an old t-shirt, it would look like I was staining the deck or fixing the sprinkler system, some useful and impressive chores. Whatever sort of lie I needed to tell myself to get there was fine—I needed to be there for Meaty, that's it. This isn't about me. Just gonna show up, smile, and be as normal-seeming as possible, and try not to shit my pants when someone offers me a piece of birthday cake.
It turned out the party was two blocks from our house so we walked over. I decided I would pull it together because this also was an excellent opportunity to meet new neighbors and lay some serious groundwork for future playdates. Still, it could also be terrible—if I had a panic attack and fainted into Steve Aoki's turntable, we'd probably have to move to Wyoming.
*****
When we arrived at the house, I was relieved to see that from the outside the party appeared to be a subdued and tasteful event, with purple unicorn balloons tied to the classy wooden fence posts and squealing kids running through the tiny manicured yard. But when we got halfway to the backyard entrance, but Meaty stopped. And then he proceeded to hide behind my legs and grab hold of them. I tried to walk us in, but he wouldn't let go. "Just wait, Dad. Please.”
We stood outside of the party, and other parents began to notice us lingering with Meaty's panic-stricken head buried between my legs. I kneeled down and smiled at him. "Guess what? I AM SCARED. Probably more than you! So how about this–we're gonna walk in together, and whenever you feel scared, you run behind my legs, and when I feel scared, I'll do the same."
I could tell by how he looked up at me that the two of us had stumbled into courage at the same moment.
We made it inside, and, guess what, it was a perfectly normal children's birthday party. There was cake, but we didn't eat it. The kids could ride on a bedraggled pony with a plastic unicorn horn fastened to its head. Wilco was on the Sonos. There was a table full of fancy-but not too fancy–arugula-dressed sandwiches. Everyone was happy we had come.
I mostly hid behind him as I mumbled through hi-how-are-yas with other parents. And, Meaty, God bless him, mingled like he was running for state senate and actually took a ride on that goddamned pony. Man, I was so glad I went.
We were there for exactly 58 minutes and left stealthily right after the pony was yanked away by an even more bedraggled-looking handler and just before the pink unicorn piñata was whacked. It wasn’t a full, rude Irish goodbye. Meaty gave the birthday girl a hug, and I said a polite thank you and promised we’d set up a playdate soon.
Yeah, we bailed early, but I walked home feeling victorious. I deeply exhaled on the walk back and looked at the dozens of cotton-ball clouds chilling in the LA sky. No birds. No parachutes.
"We did great!”
“Yeah! We did!"
I realized we’d stumbled into a wonderful moment, so I asked him to walk slower.
On the way back home, we saw the poor pony being spun around by the handler and about to be loaded into a smelly trailer. My hope was that the pony was off to a well-maintained stable with a fresh barrel of water and bottomless piles of hay and not another kids’ party.
”Can we pet him?" Meaty said.
"No, man. Let's leave that pony alone. He's had a long day."
Thanks again to Kevin Maguire for the bump.
MORE SOBER DAD SHIT:
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
Blood Pages
by George Bilgere
***********************
Someone gave my little boy
this illustrated book about whales
and every day he carries it to me,
demanding we read through its pages
about the biggest whales, the blue ones,
and the fiercest whales, the suave
orcas in their tuxes, and the mild
sperm whales with their baleen
and blow holes and benevolent gaze.
Which is fine. Everyone likes whales,
but of course being a boy
he wants to focus on the “blood pages,”
as he calls them, just two of them
inserted like an accidental dose
of reality in the middle of the book,
where the great whales are hauled up
like minnows onto the decks
of the Japanese trawlers, their strength
broken against the diesel winches,
blood pouring from the smoking wounds
where the harpoons struck and exploded.
I want to page forward to the dolphins
somersaulting above Sea World, but he
wants to see leviathan stripped
of his lordliness, skinned
alive on an ocean of blood
by small men with their scarlet blades,
their watch caps and cigarettes,
making good money on the long cruise
but nonetheless longing for home,
for the touch of their wives,
for their own children on their laps.
ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
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What a beautiful moment between you, your son, and the tired pony. What a way to connect and teach empathy! You sound like a great dad. As someone who is terrified of having to interact with other parents, I commend you for your bravery.
Lovely to have you over on The New Fatherhood A.J. You and Edith are welcome back anytime.