Musings From an Anxious Dad
By Mark Massaro
When you first learn that you’re going to be a parent, people start to shower you with platitudes:
“Get your rest, now.”
“Your whole life is going to change.”
“Nice knowing you.”
But the truest statement, and the one that’s least-often said, is “You’re not going to recognize yourself after a while.”
My wife and I have been working from home for the past two years, so our three-year-old son is by our side during most of his waking hours. My alarm goes off at 5:00 every morning because my routine requires time for coffee and silence; he is usually up an hour later and my pregnant wife sleeps in.
As I sip at my coffee while wrapped in a blue fleece blanket, the latest news flashes across my eyes:
Kidnappings. School shootings. Wars. Dishonest leadership. Ecological collapse. Pandemic deaths. Rapes. Assaults. The Kardashian family. Bullying. Suicides. Some narrow-minded nationalists waving [insert country]’s flag and a gun.
Now that I am a father, these distant issues seem amplified as if they’re right outside our front door, waiting to strike. An open window is no longer just an open window; it’s a falling hazard. Paychecks that were once spent hedonistically now go to wet-wipes and toys. And my own health isn’t just about me anymore. Before I was a parent, these things didn’t matter; they weren’t even on my radar.
The mundane now seems more threatening. Everything changes.
Moments later, still sitting in the dark with my coffee, my son’s tiny voice transmits through the baby monitor.
“Watch Elmo, Dada? Da-da-da. Where’s Dada?”
And soon, he’s resting his minor weight against me, cradled tenderly on my lap as he drinks his juice; he touches the ceramic mug and says, “Dada’s coffee is hot.”
My son has a kind and pure light in him, visible in everything that he does and how he looks at the world. His guileless and hopeful smile is something that I want to protect at all costs — but I know I can’t. Eventually, the world will subdue it, and his wholesome optimism and honest smile will be replaced by something more guarded and mundane.
When my wife and I put him down for the night, my heart momentarily hurts as we each hug him, his little arms wrapped around our necks as if we’re his home. It reminds me that he’s not aware of what’s wrong in this world.
It wasn’t that long ago that I was young and carefree, when my life oscillated between days of work and days of leisure. But the demands of being a parent are ceaseless. Even if he isn’t physically with me, I’m still a father and I’m thinking about my family’s needs and wants, doing my best to be the man that they deserve. It overpowers my rational mind; it seems that the only rest I get is when I pick up his toys, take the trash to the curb, or empty the dishwasher—the silence of performing automated tasks at the end of the day.
Our tunnel vision as parents is such that we sometimes forget to nurture our roles as partners. Minor resentment builds. My wife watches trashy reality shows, which I think reflects everything shameful and wrong about American culture, and I’ll make a frustrating comment in passing. Or she’ll get irritated with me because I try to take care of everyone and everything by myself, which usually results in mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion.
She says that I need to take care of myself first and stop trying to do everything, that I operate on anxiety and I’m a martyr. I’ll get defensive and plead my case — but she’s right, and I’ll apologize soon after. Matrimonial communication becomes a daily roller-coaster once children enter the picture, with trivial disagreements and loving reconciliations occurring in an endless loop.
My son has a kind and pure light in him, visible in everything that he does and how he looks at the world. His guileless and hopeful smile is something that I want to protect it at all costs — but I know I can’t.
As I write this, the birth of our daughter is imminent, and I already feel guilty that she’ll meet an exhausted and stressed father. But the worst part is that I don’t know how to prepare her for a culture that seems to be growing more toxic and regressive. I consider myself a feminist, and yet, once she’s older, I know I’ll feel the compulsion to tell her to have her car keys interlocked within her fingers when she walks alone at night. And to always keep mace on her. And to call me for anything, day or night. I know that I can’t control everything, but I’m afraid of what could happen if I don’t try.
Becoming a father exposed my vulnerability, as if my heart were somehow beating outside my chest. Everything that I am and love seems external and independent from me, and that loss of control is absolutely terrifying.
I don’t let it paralyze me, but the quiet worry remains. Being a parent means second-guessing every choice. If I help my son put his shoes on one time too many, will that make him overly dependent? If I comfort him when he gets shy around other kids at the park, will it teach him poor social skills?
I see the negative effects of bulldozer parents because I work in education. There are no easy answers. It’s the unknown that is powerful and intimidating. My children will grow up in a different world than I did, and I hope that they don’t need to build impenetrable armor to endure it.
However, there is peace in knowing that, at the end of the day, our children just need us to be present. My son wants me down on the floor with him, throwing his blue ball back and forth, or helping him climb on me like a jungle gym. He’s excited to point out squirrels and birds on our walks, and eagerly pulls me back home to tell his mother that the passing school bus honked for him, or that the ambulance flicked on their emergency lights.
“The school bus went honk, honk, honk, when it saw me, Mama.”
Maybe I can learn something from that innocence and appreciation of the present moment.
I know that I can’t protect my kids forever. I can only hope that unconditional love, acceptance, and support will be enough for them.
I hope their generation is the one to finally show the world how good things could be, and I hope that it starts to get better.
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Mark Massaro received a master’s degree in English Literature from Florida Gulf Coast University with a focus on 20th Century American Literature. He is a Professor of English at Florida SouthWestern State College. When not reading and writing, he can be found at a concert or with his wife and son. His writing has been published in Dash, The Georgia Review, Litro Magazine, Rain Taxi, Jane Austen Magazine, Los Angeles Review of Books, The Sunlight Press, and others. Follow his literary adventures on Instagram at @bostonmahk4.