Second Chance Parenting

When Connor was born, I made the usual promises people make before the person they’re making them about has had any opportunity to weigh in.

No cutesy outfits paraded in front of relatives. I would never raise my voice. There would be patience and reason and, above all, healthy food. I was going to be the non-processed, vegetable-forward father the parenting books suggested was entirely possible if you just cared enough.

This lasted until my first long solo drive with him.

Several hours. Interstate. A baby who had recently discovered his lungs and intended to explore their full capacity.

Somewhere around the second rest stop, I discovered that a French fry, tossed backward over the seat without taking my eyes off the road, bought approximately forty seconds of silence. A second fry bought another forty.

I don’t remember what interstate I was on or what exit we had just passed. I remember looking at the bag beside me, estimating the number of fries remaining against the miles left to drive, and feeling, for perhaps the first time as a father, something other than confidence.

Before I had children, I had opinions about people who did.

There was always a child screaming three rows up on an airplane while a parent sat there apparently doing nothing about it, absorbing the screaming as though it were weather. I had thoughts about that parent. I knew what I would do. I knew what I wouldn’t do.

I don’t have those thoughts anymore.

Somewhere in my memory is a paper bag of increasingly cold french fries and a stretch of interstate I couldn’t identify today if my life depended on it.

Years passed. Connor grew up despite the fries and the other compromises that followed them. Eventually he was off building a life of his own, and the house became quieter in the peculiar way houses do when the child who occupied them isn’t really a child anymore.

Then came Captain and Morgan.

I don’t remember consciously deciding that the Boyz represented another opportunity to demonstrate my considerable skill at raising things. But there I was, making promises again.

There would be discipline.

They would have designated places to sleep and remain in them. They would not launch themselves at strangers with the enthusiasm of sailors returning from war. They would walk calmly on leashes, attentive and slightly bored, like the dogs in movies whose owners have apparently devoted several years to preparing for that particular scene.

Barking would be reserved for matters of consequence. Fire. Intruders. Perhaps an unusually aggressive raccoon.

And the food would be impeccable.

Lean proteins. Vegetables. Proper portions. No table scraps. No human food. Nothing that hadn’t been researched, approved and placed in a bowl specifically designated for dogs.

I had opinions about other dog owners then, too.

You know the ones. Their dogs dragged them sideways through the park toward every smell on earth while the owner followed behind, arm extended, apologizing to no one in particular. I used to watch those people with the quiet superiority available only to someone who hasn’t yet been tested.

Training problem, I thought.

It was not a training problem.

It was a preview.

Captain and Morgan have since successfully negotiated the repeal of nearly every rule established before their arrival. They sleep wherever gravity places them, generally on something I was about to sit on. Strangers are still greeted with sufficient enthusiasm to suggest a wartime separation. The leash is regarded less as a means of control than as an inconvenient physical connection between their plans and mine.

The barking has also expanded its jurisdiction considerably. The mail truck qualifies. Squirrels qualify. Delivery drivers qualify. On one memorable Tuesday, their own reflections in the sliding glass door qualified.

But it is the food where my collapse has been most complete.

As I write this, there is a Hardee’s biscuit beside me. Technically, there is what remains of a Hardee’s biscuit beside me. Two pieces are missing, neither of which I ate.

Captain received the first because he was sitting politely.

Morgan received the second because Captain had received the first.

There is a system.

Both are now watching the remaining biscuit with the absolute confidence of animals who understand the system considerably better than the man who invented it.

I used to watch that parent on the airplane and wonder how things had gotten so far out of hand. I used to watch that fellow being dragged through the dog park and wonder why he hadn’t established some authority.

I know him now.

He has a reconstructed shoulder, two large golden retrievers and approximately half a biscuit.

The Boyz move a little closer.

I break off another piece.

Somewhere on an interstate more than 25 years ago, there was a paper bag of french fries sitting on the passenger seat.

Apparently, I’ve been this kind of parent all along.