A Father’s Hands

With two hands on the wheel, I drove 35 mph down the highways of San Diego.

Kyra was in the backseat with Dillon in his car seat.

He was only 48 hours old.

We were a brand-new family with cars, motorcycles, and SUVs speeding around us angrily. Yet, I was unfazed.

I had one objective: get us home safely.

I did.

It was just the three of us in that tiny house behind a house in an alley that we rented. Just the three of us trying to figure out how to do this thing called being a nuclear family.

One late night, I’m not sure how many nights thereafter, Dillon woke up crying.

I held him but he kept crying.

I checked his diaper but he kept crying.

I patted him on his back but he kept crying.

Nothing I tried worked.

I did not know what to do or how to help him.

And, I was so tired.

So goddamn tired.

And, I was so overwhelmed.

Kyra and I were all alone.

We were thousands of miles away from our families and friends in the Midwest and east coast. And, with the unimaginable volume of Dillon’s wailing and the unstoppable nature of his crying, I felt this surge of frustration flow into my hands, the hands I had wrapped around his tiny frame.

Fearful of the forces flowing through me, I put him down, staggered backwards, and thought to myself ‘I am what I thought I would be.’

I was scared of becoming a father.

I did not trust my hands.

It was one of the reasons that Kyra and I waited to have Dillon.

I took a couple of breaths, gathered myself, and picked him up again.

It was not on this occasion, but on a later one, that I figured out what he wanted.

He wanted Lionel Richie.

He wanted song #10 on that golden disc titled the “Definitive Collection.”

The initial beat of the song would startle him out of crying.

The following ‘Do-do-do, do-do’ would soothe him into silence.

I would pull him in close to me, wrap my arms and hands tightly around him, lock my eyes on him, rock back and forth, and start singing “Penny Lover” to him:

“I’ve spent all of my life in search of your love
Now there’s one more thing I’d like to say
Don’t you ever take your sweet love away
[Boy], I’ll do anything, just please stay…Woah, woah-oh”

That’s how I learned what these hands of mine were capable of, what they were meant for:

They were meant for brushing the hair out of his eyes.

For changing diapers and testing milk.

For walking my fingers up slowly to his tippy toes.

For pushing him in strollers and swings.

For cupping fireflies and pointing at butterflies.

For steadying him on my shoulders.

For hoisting him into highchairs.

For making muscles in the mirror while standing behind him.

For tossing him aloft and catching him mid-air.

For building forts out of pillows and blankets.

For swinging finished tubes of wrapping paper during sword fights.

For gesticulating wildly as I recounted the Battle of Hoth at bedtime.

For picking up “Doggie Dog” when he dropped him.

For wrestling in the front yard.

For piecing together elaborate raceways over chairs, couches, and steps.

For cheering our Hot Wheels across the finish line.

For launching monster trucks over makeshift ramps.

For packing snowballs and pulling sleds.

For holding handlebars and handing over keys.

For ripping my shirt off (almost) when he scored his first goal.

For writing our names in the sand.

Fast forward to today, Dillon is going off to college and last week I had the following dream.

Dillon was a baby and I was holding him again. Holding him like I used to hold him. Eyes closed, I rocked him back and forth. The rocking back and forth that I still do. That sway from left to right that I automatically fall into when someone else is rocking their baby. I don’t remember the last time I held him this way. So many years ago. More than a decade ago I suppose.

In the dream, I opened my eyes to look down at him.

But when I did my arms and hands were empty.

Yet, I still felt everything.

Even now, wide awake and a week after the dream, I can still feel his tiny body in my arms and hands. I can still feel his presence pressed against my chest.

I feel it all – everything.

I suppose there’s one more lesson I need to learn about what these hands of mine are truly capable of and what they are meant for.

They are meant for letting him go.