Celebrating My Greatest Gifts on Father's Day

And yes, I know what "causes them."

My son was a month old the first time we took him to Home Depot. I guess there’s some unspoken rule that you’re not supposed to take babies out of the house before they’re six weeks old. We waited four. We were new parents and working as a team. Where mom went, baby went — and where they went, I went.

Like many first-time parents I was one of those annoying pukes who felt like I was the first person on the planet to have made a baby and felt the need to show him off to everyone. Every time someone passed our cart in the store I’d nod my head toward the bundle of baby swaddled in his car seat as if to say, “I made that.”

During that visit we were approached by an older couple. Old people love babies and as the old lady fawned over ours, the man elbowed me in the ribs and with a wink said, “You know what causes them, right?”

I nodded and replied, “Yeah. Thousands of dollars and two years of fertility treatments.” Probably not the answer he was looking for, but it was the truth.

As a teenager growing up in the 1980s I spent a lot of time worrying about getting a girl pregnant. The fact that I did not know any girls who wanted to see me without my clothes on, or would let me see them without their clothes on, did nothing to ease those fears. Teachers, counselors, and coaches were quick to remind you of the repercussions of becoming a teenage parent.

For GenXers, along with infinite freedom came infinite consequences. Play the wrong role-playing game and you might accidentally become a Satan worshipper. Listen to an album that happened to be hiding backwards subliminal messages and you might just kill yourself. Hiding inside every public restroom was a stranger with danger, drooling over the opportunity to kidnap you and chop your head off… or worse. A single joint might be enough to explode your brain and send you into permanent psychosis. There were lots of things to worry about in the 1980s and getting someone pregnant was just one of them.

I got married in 1995 at the age of 22 and had somehow made it to that point without already becoming a father — which is a bit like feeling relieved that I hadn’t died in a skydiving accident despite the fact I’d only jumped out of a few trees. Based on everything I’d learned from watching after school specials, I assumed my wife and I would be parents within a year of getting married. I was wrong. Despite throwing caution to the wind, weeks turned into months, which turned into years. For a guy who was once told by his gym coach to “be careful” when sitting in a hot tub with members of the opposite sex, things were not happening as easily as I expected them to.

After five years of trying on our own, we decided to seek help from a professional. In the 50s this is where someone would break out the turkey baster and teach you how to stand on your head, but this was 2000. With the Y2K crisis behind us, scientists had nothing else to focus on but help people make babies. First there were tests, then there was a surgery, and finally there were fertility shots. The fertility shots made sure my wife’s body released as many viable eggs as possible each month. It took close to a year to get to that point, but when we finally did the doctor informed us that four eggs had been released. There was a possibility that we could have four babies. Or three, or two, or one. Or none.

“You don’t want four babies,” a coworked told me. “Four isn’t enough to get on Oprah or anything. Four kids at once is just a quick trip to poverty. You need at least six to get sponsorships for free diapers and stuff.”

A couple of months later our doctor confirmed that only one egg had been fertilized. He warned us that things might not “take” as my wife’s body had been through a lot by then, but to remain “cautiously optimistic.” We waited a long time to tell anyone because we were afraid.

By the summer of 2001, there was no hiding things. Our friends and family were so happy that they threw two baby showers for us (one from friends and family, and a second from our work family). Months before the due date, I had painted a mural that wrapped all the way around the baby room. This is what the room looked like three months before the baby’s due date.

Our son Mason was born in December of 2001.

And yeah, I know what “caused it.”

After our son was born everybody high-fived each other and while I don’t remember his exact words, the doctor led us to believe that if we ever wanted to have another baby we would have to go through that entire process again. The surgery my wife had to remove cysts surrounding her ovaries would probably need to be done again along with the fertility treatments which could lead to multiple births. The impression we got from the doctor was that it was pretty unlikely we would have a second child without additional medical treatments.

As they said in Jurassic Park, “life finds a way.” Our daughter, a bit of a surprise to everyone involved, was born in the summer of 2005.

My wife and I have a love/hate relationship with “made up” holidays like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, days that are more about stimulating the economy than anything else. Over the years I’ve received grills and tools and cards and all sorts of things, but after reading this you can probably guess what my favorite two Father’s Day gifts were.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there. Celebrate your greatest gifts today.