It’s About Love, Not Reciprocation
Years ago, when I was a young father, I became the victim of my own illusion. My days in the clinic and the hospital were long, but if I timed it just right, I could arrive to pick up my two daughters from daycare. I adore my kiddos and I anticipated these rides home to be increasingly rich exchanges with my budding toddler conversationalist, Annabel, and my gurgling infant, Vivian.
Here is the way I envisioned it would play out:
Me: Hey, baby girls! How were your days?
Annabel: Oh, Daddy! It was wonderful. Let me run the list of all the things we did . . . [insert example after example].
Vivian: *Gurgle*
Me: That is terrific! What did you have for lunch?
Annabel: Oh, it was a delicious pizza and we had a bowl of fish crackers and . . . [insert more conversation].
Vivian: *Gurgle—Giggle*
Me: I love you, babies!
Annabel: I love you too! You are the best daddy in the whole world!
Vivian: *Hiccup of affirmation*
Me: *Beaming with fedora on and stem of pipe betwixt my teeth*
And then we would arrive home.
Well, that’s not how it actually played out. At all. Here is the reality:
Me: Hey, baby girls! How were your days?
Annabel: *Silence*
Vivian: *Gurgle*
Me: What did you have for lunch?
Annabel: *Inaudible mutter*
Vivian: *Burp with spit-up milk*
Me: *Gray and brooding*
And then we would arrive home.
What happened? Where was the dynamic discussion, the affectionate give-and-take, the uninhibited enthusiasm that I was expecting? Guys! This is Dad, right? Let’s connect!
It wasn’t there. Any of you “stimulus-response” subscribers out there should just go away because there was none of that in the Worner car. At first, I felt a little pricked by this. Am I approaching this wrong? Is something going on with my kid of which I should be aware? I talked to a good friend and veteran father who simply laughed and counseled, “Don’t expect full reciprocation. Ever.” While this stung a little, it also made sense. My kids (even now that they are high schoolers) are still sorting things out. Of course, they are loving and giving and earnest, but they can also get stressed and selfish and moody. And, I guess, so can I. But there is no absence of love. From them. Or from me.
And it made me realize that the fullness of what it means to father or mother a child is to be strong and present, to love unconditionally, and to pay it forward. We have to smile when everyone is crabby, inquire when everyone is silent, and love when everyone is tapped out. It is not our place to count receipts or reconcile the ledger of kindness. Instead, it is our place to cheer and counsel, discipline and love infinitely regardless of the balance sheet. Perhaps W.H. Auden said it best in his poem “The More Loving One”:
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Our children love us. That is certain. But our love for them—that endless well that never, ever runs dry—is infinite. So, as you lay eyes on your children tonight (or the next time you see them), don’t count the receipts, reconcile the ledger, or consult the balance sheet. Simply smile, take a breath, and say to yourself, “Let the more loving one be me.”