Beth Stephenson
EDMOND — I dislike the notion of one certain day being the day when we honor all fathers or all mothers or all anything because humans range from awesome to awful. I have a human being who did his best as my dad and I’m grateful.
I grew up before the time when men did regular household work, cooked and changed diapers. Now we’ve swung too far the other direction obliterating natural gender roles, but in the old days, the restrictions of gender cheated men from some of the best parts of life.
Take the process of having babies. When I was 11, I heard my mother talking to her friend about her worries about having a baby in her 40s. At that moment I was perusing the Life Magazine array of pictures from conception to birth she had checked out of the library. I heard her say, “I don’t think she’s paying any attention.” I guess she thought I was both deaf and simple-minded because just two nights before, Dad had taken us to jump on the trampoline at the college for family night. Mom had told Dad she didn’t think she should jump in a secret, confiding voice that perked up our ears as though she had said there was ice cream melting in her purse.
My sister and I consulted and decided that Mom was going to have a baby. It was like knowing where there is buried treasure and not being able to talk about it.
My mother waited until she was four months along to make the official announcement. She worried that the teenagers and tweenagers would be embarrassed by it, but she was the only one who cared about her age. Sometimes she would let us rest our hands on her tummy to feel the baby move, like giving us one lick of an ice cream cone.
One evening in October, Mom went into labor. We went to bed but I heard my father tell my oldest brother not to worry if he and mom weren’t there when we woke up. He gave other instructions in hushed, earnest tones. Christmas Eve is short by comparison to that night. I must have fallen asleep despite my excitement because Dad awakened me by calling us to family prayers just before dawn the next morning. His voice was subdued and he had tears in his eyes. When all six of the children were kneeling in the circle with him, he said, “Mom had the baby last night.”
“What is it? Is it a boy or a girl?”
“You have a new baby brother.” The instant of disappointment for my sister and me was overshadowed when Dad’s voice caught and tears ran down his cheeks. My older brother asked the question we barely dared to frame. “Are they both all right?”
“They’re perfect. It was a miracle. I can’t describe it well enough, but your mother has such courage.” His voice caught again, but in a moment he continued. “To think that I missed seeing each of you be born. I’m so grateful that I got to be there to see the seventh.” He wanted bigger, better words to express himself. “I never realized what I’d missed,” he said.
He gave us the detail information in reverent tones, — 9 pounds, 8 ounces, 20 inches long, no visible hair, all fingers and toes accounted for. It was a middle-sized baby for my mom. They eventually would name him “Hugh” after my uncle.
In those days, Dad didn’t say “I love you,” in words very often. He went to work every day and he ate my mother’s cooking without complaining and he had a knack for bartering for unusual treats. Once he traded a box of our homegrown apples with a pie vendor on the Santa Cruz pier for a 5-gallon can of lemon pudding.
Though now men can say the three magic words to their children without feeling strange, I’m not sure that speaking it is more eloquent than demonstrating it through daily example and persistent work. My dad died nearly 15 years ago, but my good husband is much the same. In case you good dads haven’t heard it enough, your children love you too.
BETH STEPHENSON is an Edmond resident.
