Although sometimes, words can be pretty good, too. Here I conclude “Lessons” with one each from my two most influential teachers: my kids.

Hug

One thing I’ve learned about parenthood is that, pretty much daily, you can count on your kids to do something that completes this sentence: They will     your heart.

Break, melt, warm, burst, fill, flood, wound . . . you name it. If there’s any way your heart can be impacted positively or negatively, your kids will find a way to do it.

Sometimes in multiple ways, in the same sentence.

One day early in our time together, I lit into Mark pretty badly. As with so many crimes committed over the years, I can’t even remember what he did. Probably something really monstrous like coloring on the walls after I asked him not to. Or throwing cucumbers out the window. Or maybe . . . horrors . . . calling his brother a jerk.

What I do remember is that I threw everything I had from the bad-parent-discipline book at him.* There was yelling, screaming, probably an insult or two, maybe even some snide put-downs or name-calling.

(*Except spanking. We were still in the no-spank years.)

I am very grown up at all times.

After my tirade, I stormed upstairs, leaving Mark curled on his bed, a huddled, crying mess. Keep in mind, he couldn’t have been more than six, seven at the time.

A few minutes later, he appeared in the kitchen. I didn’t know what to expect when I saw him: our first (but certainly not last) “I hate you!”? something (preferably a stuffed animal) thrown at my head? an announcement that he was leaving this terrible place for a life on the road?

Whatever it was, I certainly didn’t expect this: “Can I have a hug?”

A hug. Asking for a hug from the lunatic who just raged at, spewed at, belittled you not five minutes ago. To this day, I have no idea how his little brain decided that the thing it wanted right then was to be held by the guy who made him need a hug in the first place. And then prompted him to bravely, directly show up and ask. I learned so much in that moment about both my son’s capacity for love and the strength of our bond (as my heart was breaking—melting—ballooning). I’ve used it as a reference point ever since.

One of the ongoing messages  of  adoptive  parent  recruiting and training is, “You don’t have to be perfect. Good enough is good enough.” Even at my worst, Mark made a point to let me know I was good enough . . . and I am eternally grateful for the lesson.

(I) Love You

A fellow gay adoptive dad (who, being much smarter than me, waited until he was partnered before having kids) requested that I write about this topic: saying “I love you” to the boys. He was curious how often I did or do say it, and what their reactions have been over the years.

My hunch is that he was expecting something like this: I used to say “I love you” a lot when the kids were younger, but over the years they resisted or became embarrassed by it, so I stopped. That would be a fairly normal storyline. Which means, of course, that it’s not the one our family followed at all. The truth is much more embarrassing.

First, some background. Growing up, my cold fish family wasn’t very big on “I love you.” Among the seven of us—mom, dad, four sisters, me—I’m pretty sure I heard those words roughly, oh, let’s just say for a ballpark, probably about: zero times. There was clearly some kind of (often awkward, clunky) love floating around, but verbalizing it wasn’t high in anyone’s skill set. Love was much more likely to be expressed as lasagna than a letter.

When I put our little family together, I followed the tradition of “I’m going to give my kids better than I got.” So, I was a committed “I love you”-er. The minimum was once per day, usually at bedtime. After stories, wrestling, bedtime hits, whatever other rollicking activity we did, at the tuck-in point, I let each boy know: “I love you.”

As I say, that was the minimum. On days where I was more grounded and present, or just in a better mood, I might remember to toss out an unexpected “I love you” for no reason at all—except, of course, that I do.

The boys, being—I’m pretty sure this is the technical term—“affection sponges,” soaked it all up. During those first few years, I never once got a blush, or a deflection, or a “Dad, you’re embarrassing me.”

So the daily (plus) habit continued, until it didn’t. And when that shift took place, the culprit was . . . me.

I’ve described elsewhere my “What was I thinking?” relationship with my ex. Here’s another reason to bang my head against the wall: At some point, I intuited—or maybe he told me directly—that my ex was jealous of the open affection I showed my kids. In his defense, I rarely showed him such affection (for reasons which, if you knew the two of us . . .).

Being an enlightened sort who has maybe the teeniest, tiniest tendency toward taking on other people’s stuff and being an emotional accommodator, I came up with what was clearly a brilliant solution: I chose to stop being so openly affectionate toward my kids.

One of the casualties was our bedtime sign-off—or, at least, the “I” part. Somewhere during the ex years, our cuddly “I love you”s morphed into breezy “Love you”s, all thanks to Dad’s dysfunctional inner system.

The kids, true to form, didn’t balk at the change. Nor, for as long as it lasted, did they express any embarrassment at this abbreviated version.

Over the years, tuck-ins gave way to more casual check-ins, which eventually gave way to the kids just going to bed, without Dad being involved at all. That was probably when “(I) love you” went into hibernation. I guess this period might most closely follow the “normal” family storyline.

Surprisingly—or not, depending on how you slice it—“Love you” made its comeback courtesy of Daveon. At some point, just before or after he went off to college, Daveon began signing off our phone conversations—even the hard ones—with a cheery “Love you.”* Which prompted me to reply in kind. In this minor way, “Love you” reentered our world. And as with many things having to do with big hearts and open expression, I have my kids to thank.

(*To be fair, knowing Daveon, he might sign off all his communication—with his friends, his teachers, the cashier at the grocery store—this way.)  

For what it’s worth, I think Mark might be embarrassed when I sign off our calls with “Love you.” But when he moved to Florida, I started doing it, anyway. Which leads to this thought for anyone struggling with the more traditional “I want to (or do) say ‘I love you,’ but my kids balk” scenario: It’s a judgment call, but my own bias and practice is to allow the kids to lead in most things, especially as they get older. “This makes you uncomfortable. I’ll stop or modify it.” But I also think it’s important to hold firm to the handful of things that matter most to you. As I jokingly—but truthfully—say about Mark, expressing “I love you” is important enough to me when he’s far away, that I’m gonna do it. If it makes him uncomfortable . . . well, sometimes (I) love (you) hurts, right?

Next Chapter: Empty Nest (section)