"The father becomes the son, and the son the father."

It's almost midnight and I should be lying down in bed trying to sleep, but I'm too nervous right now. Megan is at my mom's house spending the night and Melissa is upstairs hopefully asleep, but I'm sitting in front of my computer browsing my usual roster of websites hoping a little drowsiness will set in. No such luck, though, at least yet. In another 10 hours my son should be born into this world and I'm scared to death what kind of father my scarred childhood has produced. I never had this anxiety with Megan since I'm fine with women, but thanks to the wonderful relationship I had with my father I don't exactly openly emote with men. My best friend, whom I love dearly, recently asked me why I never show a shred of emotion toward him and the question annoyed me. He was obviously fishing for some kind of response and the entire situation just made me uncomfortable. Yet later on I kept thinking about why he felt the need to ask me such a question after decades of friendship and I realized that at times people just need to be reassured of their position in your life. So I grudgingly wrote a short e-mail explaining to him that while I may not show the emotions they do exist. . .just don't ever expect me to display them face-to-face. Writing this reminds me of his worried rush over to my house after hearing of my father's death: "Are you ok," he asked. Yes, was the quick reply. "If you weren't ok, would you tell me?" No. "That's what I thought."

Which leaves me worrying about Ian. I was thinking earlier today at work how I don't have one memory of my father playing with me. I remember growing up how jealous I was of my half brother and sister over how their father would take them on vacations every summer, how he would start a stamp collection for his son for the two of them to work on together, how he'd take them to the then-popular toy store, Children's Palace, and they would return home late Sunday proudly showing off their new toys while I would wonder what was wrong with me, why didn't my dad want to do similar things with me. And how healthy is the fact that three years following his death, I've never shed one tear over my father's passing, never once visited his gravesite, only attended his funeral because my sister called and pleaded with me to come. I have so much emotional toxicity toward men that I feel like I'm somehow programmed to become my father toward Ian. A man's ability to emotionally detach--to franchise, in the words of Fight Club--himself from his children is a scary thing. I'd like to think I'm not capable of that; I couldn't imagine being a weekend father with Megan, not seeing her smile every morning, hearing her voice downstairs playing or not playing hide 'n seek with her every morning in my bathroom closet as we always do.

Maybe this havering is for naught and I'm in better shape than I realize. I certainly hope so. I've never been career or money oriented, never had any milestones for success in life planted in my head, but I do know that if I were to be lying on my death bed and looked at my son and said, "I love you, " only to have him look away and say nothing in return like I did to my father three years ago, that to me would be an undeniable manifestation of absolute failure for my life. I'll be 60 by the time Ian turns 17, and with the health issues I've had since birth I doubt I exceed the average lifespan of an American male so I can only hope that he doesn't spend the bulk of his adulthood exerting mental and emotional energy/effort trying to get out from beneath a blighted childhood. I think any normal parent just wants their children to have healthy, happy lives, and I would love to know at the end that I had contributed toward giving both just that. I'm apparently the only one in my group of geek-ish friends who loved last year's Superman Returns, but despite the movie's uneven pacing and lack of action I was sold at the end when Sup visited his son in bed and whispered, "The father becomes the son, and the son the father." That's such a wonderful expression to quote in an ideal world, a world in which a Christ-like, costumed visitor from another planet sets an untarnished example for mankind to follow, but unfortunately we don't live in an ideal world no matter how much I have always been drawn to books, movies, or games that are escapist in nature.

It's well past midnight now. I dreamt of my childhood friend, Andrew, last night and was reminded how much I miss him at times, the special bond we shared for the years we were friends and how I've never cared about another male as much as I cared about him. In the dream I was able to express to him things I would never, could never, have told him, how much his friendship meant to me and how much I loved him. We were to each other the brother neither had by way of blood. We haven't spoken in roughly twenty years and I don't even know if he's still living in this area or even still alive. But I give my son his name in memory of my long-lost friend, whom I will miss for the duration of my life and whose absence is a stark reminder that relationships can be fragile, fragile things that can be shattered when the son becomes the father.