Travis 16
Drew 12
Dad 46
My son Travis is 16 years old, and the only thing he needs me for is to trim the nails of the fingers on his right hand.
Travis is a terrific guy – great student, state-ranked tennis player, handsome, happy, friendly, a gentleman. I wish you knew him. He and I have been very, very close for 16 years, as his mother and I have shared the caretaking rather equally. But now, as a high school junior, he has grown wondrously independent, and needs me for only one, small grooming act – to cut five fingernails.
He can use our nail scissors to trim the nails on his left hand. But he can’t use these scissors with his left hand, and so he comes to me, about every two weeks, to complete the task. How odd that it should come down to this.
The memories are so vivid of my earlier, more vital, more intimate roles. In infancy, feeding, sure. (With breastfeeding being the only aspect of femaleness that I truly envied.) Diaper changing. Rocking. Lots and lots of rocking, to bring sleep, to comfort, to gently tilt away any uneasiness. Heck, in the earliest days I even had the task of using some big rubber syringe to suction mucus out of his nose. And now, five fingernails.
When he began to walk, I assumed the role of supposed guardian angel, thinking it was my job to have my hands hovering between his head and any sharp-edged furniture or steps, without his knowing I was doing so. I even thought it was my job to teach him important words (“Touchdown”!) and gestures (two arms thrust straight up in the air).
In the preschool years Travis gained more independence, appropriately. So, I wasn’t needed for feeding or toileting, and while I didn’t actually have to dress him, I often picked out two sets of clothes, so he could choose one himself. I assumed the very important role of first baseball instructor, with many happy hours spent in the front yard, tossing a softer-than-normal baseball.
As the school years started I swooped into other valuable and fun roles: math tutor, friend screener, vacation planner, teacher placater, Bible story interpreter, Little League coach, Cub Scout den “mother,” personal cheerleader and marketer.
Most of those roles expired, and middle school brought new roles of band parent, tennis coach, tennis patron, chauffeur, amateur counselor about girl issues, and teacher of the infield fly rule.
So now he’s in high school. I knew that his turning 16 would entail that quantum leap in independence that a driver’s license brings, but I didn’t realize just how big that leap would be, and how it would force me to revisit my own source of fulfillment. I don’t begrudge him this independence at all. It makes me simultaneously deeply sad and grandly joyous. I can appreciate the natural order of things and still be sad that I won’t always be able to enjoy his company. But I expected that. I’m surprised at the flip side, that I’m actually thrilled to see him growing up, so capable, creative, and smooth in his navigation of the world.
And so daily he drives off. Drives himself to predawn workouts. Drives himself to school. Drives himself to tennis practice. Drives his brother places whenever we ask. Drives the both of them to church youth group. I value each segment of time I have with him – studying for a history test, driving to church, watching a small part of a sporting event on TV. But at none of these times am I of vital importance.
I might underestimate the value of being father-on-call. But I am rarely called on. Indeed, the only regular time I’m called on is when Travis needs the fingernails on his right hand clipped. This, too, shall pass, in due time. And maybe there’ll be another role for me. But do me a favor – please don’t tell him about nail clippers.
