Baby Daddy

Two Christmases ago, I thought I would lose my father. He had been diagnosed with a kidney ailment; he fell off his bed during his sleep causing him to have a hip fracture. His spirit was down. He was as down as any person who is about to RSVP to heaven.

I had been pretty much independent most of my adult life. The moment my curfew was lifted I had pretty much moved out of the house. I lived in different parts of the world and have had adventures that echo those of Bridget Jones. However, in that cold and isolating hospital room, I have never felt more like a scared child.

This is how one sucks it up and you just can’t collapse and cry. We were (trying) to watch Casablanca, one of my dad’s favorite movies. He kept howling in pain because of his hip and he looked like a science experiment because he was hooked up to so many tubes and machines. I maintained a stoic face while I watched the movie. Inside me, it was Tahir Square.

I just wanted to suck my thumb and fall into a fetal position. I didn’t want my father to be in pain, I didn’t want him to die. I wanted to hug him but there was a part of me that cemented me to the chair and just hoped that the noise that came from the TV would drown his cries for help; that if I acted normal, the world and our current circumstances would follow suit.

We as a family love each other. However, we’re not huggy or warm; we could practically be British with our almost formal conduct with one another. So even as my dad was suffering, I just couldn’t, because of the nurture part of me. Nurture beat nature.

Being there, however, made a difference I guess. I was the only kid there as my other siblings were out of the country. My dad, in between rounds of Demerol, would start asking me questions about myself. He never really did ask anything about me, ever. I told him about my new boyfriend, our plans to travel after the holiday, a job that I was trying to get and stories about my friends.

We bonded as we talked about things that had nothing to do with his pain and sickness.

My dad got remarkably better. The Lopezes are known for being strong. I have the immune system of a cockroach. Our genes are just bionic. He was using a wheelchair for a month, a walker after another month, then he was again at Rockwell watching the latest movies, walking on his feet unaided. 

My dad and I never had that kind of conversation again. But after what happened that Christmas, we became very close in ways that no other person can understand. I’ve always loved my dad, in the way all little girls love their dad. However, my father is a quiet man and he’s a tough crowd. So it was special that we were able to connect that way. That was enough for me.

The thought of losing my father left me with many thoughts about my own future. I had thought that I would have been already been married with kids around that time (I had just turned 32 then) despite my lifestyle, my constant traveling and the fact that I have never carried a child in my arms.

 As the years passed I found myself making more substantial choices. I decided to travel less, go for all my dream projects and actually finish them, re-evaluate my values and the people around me to perpetuate them and of course opt for a quieter life.

It’s not an instant thing. Well, ideally it isn’t. I used this time to pave the road for this dream life that I started lusting for. I wanted the white picket fence, the ability to make the best roast chicken and a child who liked to finger paint on my walls. I wanted to be a mom.

It’s funny because while I was feeling this biological clock thing, the man who would probably be part of this picture was a fuzzy and gray figure. I went from boy crazy to baby crazy.

An artist named Mira Kaddoura created this app called The Wonder Clock. It basically tells you how much time you have before you are no longer a good candidate to bear children. It is a scary and disturbing app. However, I can imagine women being drawn to it for the most natural of reasons. For less than two dollars, you have this daily reminder that time is running out.

This is when I catch myself. When my best friend had a baby, I had never felt the strongest urge to have my own until then. I am very attached to my friend and the thought of us raising children together was an extension to our friendship that I have desired for dearly. Maybe it was Devon, the baby’s, voodoo that attracted me so much to the idea. Maybe it’s all this talk of the biological clock, shown in different permutations through pop culture and mainstream media (every celebrity’s next step is having a baby) influencing me.

Whatever it was, I needed to take a step back and relax. Whatever I’m wishing for, it’s not going to come soon. A few months ago, I was being pursued by a man who had nothing on his mind but children. It’s funny that when a woman feels this, she seems desperate. If a man gets baby fever he seems more eligible than ever. He constantly spoke about it and he was speeding up the courtship to an unnatural level of ardor.

To him, I was a fuzzy and gray figure.

It didn’t matter who I was, just as long as my IQ levels were high, I was ripe and was willing to move to Europe full-time, then I was The One. Almost like I didn’t have a say in it.

I needed to see him and his manic ways to see that I was no different. Who was I to judge him? Perhaps the level of my wanting was not as intense, I saw how being baby crazy was just crazy. He was the head of a major bank in the US and Europe and yet he couldn’t keep his shit together.

It made me rethink the importance of the gray and fuzzy figure again in my life. The much-archived father figure. I have two father figures, my grandfather and my biological father. They were as different as night and day, but they are both in my heart.

What kind of father would I want for my child?

Men have always fascinated me. Their tendencies to draw chalk circles around themselves only to always skip out of it after a breath or two. Their naturally ambitious yet dreamy nature. Their primal urge to protect is only equaled by their spirited urge to flee. They make me laugh. I have more male friends than female friends, mostly because they are more loyal, protective and simple. Unless of course you step out of the friendzone and become FWBs (friends with benefits) — then God flips a coin in those situations.

I guess being a father cannot be framed and frozen like a Norman Rockwell fantasy. I want my child to feel that he or she will always have a safe harbor. For some reason, children naturally crave that kind of stability from their fathers. The more nuanced and emotional component is usually found in their mothers. It’s harder now than ever before to create that simple and even room.

Fathers today are very different. In an age of hyper-parenting, lots of fathers (and sometimes mothers) exchange nurture for future. At four, they gear up for Latin classes and orchestra training. It is their way to prepare their kinds for a globalized world that exalts all kinds of extraneous talents.

I need a guy who remembers and expresses love like a Hallmark card. Simple, cheesy and universal. A guy who will enjoy creating a treehouse with my kid. A guy who will make my child laugh, like my father has, and he and she will recount these stories onto their adulthood. I want a man who knows that he will make mistakes and who has the ability to forgive himself afterwards.

I want my child to look up to a man who has passion, compassion and singularity. I want my child to be proud and, when the time comes, my child will be there to comfort his or her father with his favorite movie when he feels vulnerable.

Through this father, my child will learn that life is both cruel and kind. And no matter what, he or she will never be alone. I think the best thing I can ever give my child is to at least hope to marry the best kind of father he or she can have. That is one of my greatest responsibilities. I may feel drawn to an adventurous nomadic playboy, but for my child I’ll probably choose the bookworm. It’s up to me to choose the good man and not naively hope that fatherhood can ever change a cad. I think this is something a lot of women neglect to think about when they say “I do.” Men in general need to see that women will make good mothers before popping the question.

I guess at the end, I need to be more observant of my inclination to refer to the father as a fuzzy figure and vie for a great person who will be both mine and my child’s best friend for the years to come. Just like how my dad is to me.