C’mon, Get Happy

So far, the baby’s a one-hit wonder. He says puppy and, even though we don’t own a dog, my wife cheers. Already keen for female attention, the baby says it again “Puppy puppy puppy” and the vicious cycle continues, him babbling and her clapping.

Because the world will want more than a single, inappropriate word, I ask my wife, Don’t you think you’re giving him false expectations? She says we should encourage him.

My wife also encourages me to spend time with the baby. Take him somewhere, she says. Given the attention his first (and only) word receives, I figure the baby wants something special, but I’m not exciting like his mother. I go to boring Dad places and do boring Dad things.

It’s not such a big deal, my wife says. Take him to the aquarium.

So I decide to take him to the fresh-water aquarium, down by the harbor on the lake. He can watch turtles and trout, stingrays and sturgeon. There’s a guy who puts on a wetsuit and feeds the fish. Once in a while, he grabs a sturgeon and kisses it, right on its fish lips.

It’s not like he’s old enough to remember this, I tell my wife as she slings the diaper bag over my shoulder and hands me the baby.

I’ll remember, she says and I figure that’s what this is really about.

Most kids love a stroller, but not ours. When I try to get him situated at the aquarium, he howls like a rabid badger being poked with a sharp stick. Puppy, Puppy, pupPPYYY, he snarls. People stare.

We lost our dog, I tell a woman who gets out of a car across from ours. Kid’s devastated. We’re looking for Clifford at the lake because that dog loves to swim.

Once you say you’re going to do something, it’s fatal not to go through with it. This is how the baby and I end up sitting next to the lake outside the aquarium, calling for a puppy we don’t even own.

I’ve never been impressed by lakes, but this one is a pretty great lake, not some shabby, wanna-be lake like the one my parents used to take us to when we were kids. I’ve told my wife stories about that lake, about how my brother and I caught tadpoles in jars and then forgot them, the tadpoles left dying in the sun. We used to call the only radio station and dedicate songs to girls whose names we made up. We spent a lot of time waiting for something to happen. We sat in the car, listening to the radio and pretending we were running away to some place better, a lake that wasn’t filled with senior citizens in paddle boats and so shallow adults could walk to the middle without submerging their shoulders. That lake, I always tell my wife, was so boring. What’s wrong with boring? she says. At least it kept you from getting in over your head.

But this lake, this is a lake where a boy could get in real trouble. I look at my son as he stares over the water. This lake is something new. A lot of things could go wrong here. This one has depth and danger.  Canada’s on the other side of this lake. I point out a lake freighter to the baby. Look, I say, it’s the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Puppy? he asks.

That’s a boat, I say. A boat.

Puppy, he tells me confidently. He nods. He squints his little baby eyes like he’s looking for a dog on the ship’s deck.

At this point, a better parent would drop it or maybe correct him again, try to show him the truth about the world. Maybe a better father would admit to his son that the only thing you can know is that you don’t know a damn thing. You can’t possibly predict where you’re going. All you can do is tell stories once you get there.

For example, you could say you met this long-legged girl, and she values your friendship. She’s chasing some clean-cut fool who has the laid-back appeal of boys who were good-looking in high school. He’ll inherit his father’s business and golf on the weekends. He knows where he’s going, and women find stability attractive. You’re his polar opposite, but your heart’s in the right place. You try to be honest about everything you don’t know.

This girl makes you a better version of yourself. You start to believe anything is possible. You wait. You call. You don’t give up. Eventually–and this part takes a while–she says yes. Yes! Then things really start happening: grown-up jobs, new house, baby on the way.

You’re terrified.

You take baby steps.

You have to learn how to get happy.

Some nights you fail. Neither of you has slept well in months and there’s never enough money. You know you disappoint her, could be a better spouse, a better father. Sometimes, you go out to the garage and sit in the car. Tonight’s the night, you think. But you never go. You close your eyes, pretend you’re back at that beach. You go back into your home, lie down next to your sleeping wife, try to hear your son’s sleepy breath through the wall separating your room from his. If she could go back, you wonder, would she still choose you? You can never know and, really, none of this matters. You’re here, doing this together. Eventually, you find yourself lying to strangers and looking for imaginary dogs.

Puppy, I call one last time. My son’s voice echoes mine. His fingers press against my arm, pulling. He’s willing to sit a little longer if I hold him on my lap, so I do. Here is the heavy worth of waiting. He’s happy for the moment and so am I.

Don’t tell your mother, I whisper into his hair. I’m going to ruin the surprise. This is how the story ends: In our own imperfect ways, we must become enough.