The Imperfect Parent - Articles || Growing Pains

PUBLISHED June, 2007
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Growing Pains

A man's place.

by Elizabeth Thompson

My father was your average "waiting room husband" - the father-to-be you’d typically find in a hospital during the early 1960’s - he paced, he sat, and he chain smoked his Marlboros.

For hours, my dad shared cigarettes and stories with men, and watched one after another leave the hospital waiting room as fathers.

Growing up, I often asked why he didn’t bother to go and sit with my mom.

“Because it wasn’t a place for a man.”

My mother often told me stories of what a wonderful expectant father he was; braving a snow storm in the middle of the Late, Late Show to pick up a bag of popcorn from the corner store to ease my mother's craving for the night.

He continued to be a great help to my mom, once we were born, by cleaning the house and taking bags filled with soiled diapers to the laundromat, where he made fast friends with the ladies and other new mothers.

He would come home from pulling a double shift at work and, rather than going to bed, take his babies out for a walk in the stroller, so that my mom could get a little private time.

Growing up, I often asked why he didn’t consider staying at home and letting my mother work.

“Because it wasn’t a place for a man.”

My brother and I have always had a close relationship to our dad – my grandfather did not. In fact, the first time that my dad ever spoke to his father, on an intimate level, was during his only visit to America, shortly after my brother and I were born. He acknowledged that my dad was a good husband and would probably make a wonderful father, but questioned whether their troubled relationship was one of the reasons my dad fled the country.

My father couldn’t bring himself to admit it and said that it was not.

Growing up, whenever I approached my father about confusing adolescent issues, he would always send me to my mother.

“Because it wasn’t a place for a man.”

Once my brother and I were grown, my dad couldn't wait to be a grandfather. He wished for a granddaughter to spoil and fawn over, or a grandson to take fishing; it really didn’t matter in which particular order, just that it happened.

When I became pregnant with my first child, he was beside himself with worry, thinking perhaps that my commuting into New York City was too much. There were days when it was and I couldn’t make it any further than the train station nearest my parents’ house , but - oddly enough, it would happen to be my father’s day off - he would always come down and bring me a can of Coke for the drive back home.

The day my oldest daughter was born, he and my mother hadn’t heard from my husband for a couple of hours and - as they were about to leave for the hospital shortly after 4:30 in the morning, because, I’m their daughter, dammit - they got the call that their first granddaughter was born.

My father was thrilled.

Later, I tried to share my birth story with my father and he acknowledged his discomfort at discussing, such things.

“Because it wasn’t a man’s place.”

When I became pregnant a second time, he was nervous; could he possibly share the love he had for Thing One; what if it’s another girl; would he feel disappointed; would he have the capacity, the nerve, and the patience?

The answers were obvious; with one look at Thing Two, she immediately became and always would been one of, “papa’s girls!”

When Thing Two was born, my dad was thrilled.

Whenever I would offer my father the chance to change his granddaughters’ diapers, he would always graciously decline.

“Because it’s not a man’s place.”

When I became pregnant a third time, my father wasn’t too concerned. The more, the merrier! My father came into the kitchen and I turned to him with pride.

“Guess what? You’re going to have another Grandbaby!”

He nodded his head.

“That’s good, now come out and see what I did in the vegetable garden.”

When his grandson was born, my dad was relieved.

When I became pregnant a fourth time, I finally thought to ask my parents to be there at the delivery. After all, things have changed since my mom gave birth. Expectant mothers had private rooms, for both their labor and delivery. The atmosphere was so much more relaxed and I would love to be able to have their support.

My Mom was thrilled; my father was horrified, but I gave them a quick proviso.

"I’ve done this three times already. They say this one will come quick. Besides, you can leave when things get ugly."

My labor with Mini-Me was the longest and most difficult of all my pregnancies, lasting nearly eleven hours. About halfway through, and coming down from an extremely painful contraction, I was tired and frustrated. I questioned my decision about having my parents present. They hadn’t eaten, looked very tired and were shivering with cold from the highly air-conditioned floor.

I started to regret my insisting on natural childbirth, as well. But, my medical history was such that, any type of pain medication halted my labors’ progression and caused severe distress to my babies.

It was too late, now and I hated the fact that I felt like a coward - with another contraction over, I threw my head back into the pillow, closed my eyes and began to cry.

That’s when I felt my father’s strong hands gently take hold of mine and - as I looked into his face and realized how really blue his eyes were – I clutched both his hands through the next contraction, letting go only after fearing that I might have hurt him.

“I know you’re not comfortable about being here, you can go home, you know.”

As another contraction hit I hissed, through clenched teeth, something about this not being a manly-kind of place and my father’s eyes began to tear, as his voice broke, a little.

“No, this is no place for a man. But, I am your father and my place is to be right here next to you.”

We bore through the pain – mine and his – for the next six hours; until things got really ugly.

We’ve both come a very long way, since leaving home and becoming parents, and when Mini-Me was born, my father was thrilled, relieved and a bit, you know, tired.