bracing for the man

We’ll be the worst parents that ever lived. He’ll hate us. He’ll likely cuss us out.

For the moment he nestles in my wife’s belly, warm and content. Not long after he draws his first breath, however, he’ll tell us no, lie to us, curse us to our faces.

My wife and I try to keep this in mind amid the craze of Winnie-the-Pooh outfits and pastel cushy toys. We’re not bringing a baby into the world, after all – we’re bringing in a man, who will only look like a baby briefly. And between here and manhood slouches an insufferable rebellious teenager: pimply-faced, sullen, disrespectful. He might as well emerge from the womb with headphones and disdainful sneer already in place.

Our son won’t be one of us, that’s for sure. Most of the time he won’t even want to be seen with us. After serving an 18-year sentence in our home he’ll want nothing but to be out, with nary a glance back.

That’s why we won’t be christening him with my name. He’s got his own stake to claim, after all, an entire world out there to conquer – a world more his than mine. A destiny like his deserves a name of its own.

We’ve begun to sense it already: very soon, it will no longer be about us, about who we will become, what we will accomplish. Our son’s first wailing cry will be our exit cue, signaling our obsolescence. As his star rises, our own fade.

We’re bracing ourselves for that empty nest, even as it fills.

One day, after we have done all we can to equip him before he charges off into the fray, he will be gone, and we will be ourselves again: two who chose each other. Two who will linger back in our son’s cool and restful shadow, together.

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copyright © 2005, michael w. hobson