Your Old Man, the Crybaby
By Josh Barsch
Dear Mia & Ezra,
I’ve got a little problem. Every time I sit down to write about you guys in anything approaching a sincere and serious tone, I tend to well up with tears really, really fast. I’m not always sure whether they’re sad tears, happy tears or proud tears — but they’re definitely the face-wetting kind.
This is not a good trait for a writer to have — especially one who likes writing about his kids. Not to mention, at some point in the future, I’ll be called upon to stand up in public and say emotional things about you — your graduations, weddings, etc. And if I can’t get through a simple written piece without blubbering like Tammy Faye Bakker, then you’re really going to embarrassed the first time someone hands me a live microphone, that’s for sure.
I’m usually not one for the waterworks; I’ve weathered a lot of stress and strain during my life and I’ve taken most of it pretty stonefaced. I also like being the boss, and I never want to break down in front of the people I’m trying to lead. I crack, then they crack, and then it’s chaos. So I end up swallowing a lot of my emotions, which is good practice for the ulcer pills I’ll have to swallow later on because of it.
But you guys are certainly the exception to the Dad-never-cries rule. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, really, but I can’t seem to have a meaningful thought about you guys without getting all swollen about the eyes and snotty about the nose — the kind of thing I usually reserve for the final moments of documentaries about the 1980 US Olympic hockey team, or when Daniel-san crane-kicks the living shit out of Johnny Lawrence to win the All-Valley Karate Tournament.
Maybe it’s in my genes.
I remember the first time I saw my dad cry. I was 16, and he came home from work at the jet shop (he was a jet engine mechanic in the Air Force) and sank down at the dinner table in his fatigues. He’d gotten bad news from the higher-ups: he was being sent to South Korea for a year.
Not “we” were getting sent to South Korea for a year — he was getting sent, without us. For one-year tours, the family stays behind. And that was the part that busted Dad up so badly that his voice finally cracked open halfway through delivering the news. I remember the exact sentence that finally broke him down:
“I…” he said, right before the tears got the best of him, “…I just never thought I’d have to leave you guys again.” My mom swooped in at that moment to comfort him, and I just kept quiet and let him get through the moment. It didn’t take long.
I admit, I was stunned. Not just that he’d broken down, but also at the reason — he was going to miss me and Mom so badly that he couldn’t keep it together. We were everything to him, which seems obvious in hindsight and certainly so to anyone who knows my father. But at that moment, I remember thinking, wow — my dad’s absolute worst-case scenario, bar none, is simply being away from us.
I realized then that he didn’t spend all his time with us because he had nothing better to do. That’s just what he wanted out of life. He was a Family Man. And that was all it took to make him cry, really — you just had to hit him where it mattered, where it hurt.
I guess that’s all it takes for any of us.
And whaddya know? I think he passed that weak spot along to me, guys. That’s why I can’t get through “Daddy’s Girl” by Garrison Keillor without stopping to “blow my nose” when I’m reading it to you, Mia. I can make it all the way to the last couple pages, but I’m toast every time when we get to: “And once in a while, whenever you can, Remember your old man…”
And despite being a very sharp kid, you’ve never called me on it or even acknowledged I was crying — even though I know you know. Every single time, you’ve just kept quiet and let me get through the moment. It never takes long.
So maybe I’m beginning to figure out why I cry every time I sit down to write about you guys. I won’t get sent to Korea, but you’ll go your separate ways someday just the same. Maybe it’s because I can see you growing up so fast every day — so fast that I can see perfectly the ghost of your 18-year-old selves slamming the front door on your way out the door to college, and I can hear the awful silence you leave behind. A silence pierced by me, the 50-something man sitting on the floor of what is no longer your bedroom, weeping for the 18 years that just absolutely vanished on me.
Maybe it’s because every time you guys do something that makes me proud, I realize it’s one more thing you no longer need me to teach you.
Maybe it’s because every time I kiss you good night, I can already feel that I’m slowly kissing you goodbye.
You can’t read this yet, but someday you will. And you’ll probably worry that I walked through your early lives with too heavy a heart, too burdened by the future to enjoy the present. But don’t worry, guys — that’s not how it is. Soaking up the moments of your little lives is job one for me, and that consumes a lot more of my time than writing does.
But here’s the plan: Every so often, while you’re zonked out and dreaming in the next room, I’ll open my computer and write a little. Sometimes it’ll be funny stuff, and sometimes it’ll be sad stuff. Everyone loves funny stuff, and the sad stuff — well, let’s just say that I’m making it easier on myself down the road by letting out the sad stuff little by little as you grow up. And I’ll put every bit of it in a book for you to take with you when you head off to make your own road.
And somewhere in that book, I’ll rip off Garrison Keillor, and ask you to once in a while, whenever you can, remember your old man. Even if you remember him crying.
Love,
Dad xoxo
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Josh Barsch founded StraightForward Media in 2001 after a brief career in print journalism. He now lives in the sticks of western South Dakota with his wife Christina, daughter Mia, son Ezra, two dogs Velvet & Holly, and cat Chanceux, all of whom he loves dearly. And four nameless hermit crabs, for whom he feels nothing.
18 Responses to “Your Old Man, the Crybaby”
1 Geoff 23 January 2009 @ 2:32 am
Wow, once again, your writing has amazed me. Please don’t stop writing these blogs.
2 Rick Nelson 23 January 2009 @ 6:31 am
very nice josh. you have my dad of the year vote.
and its ok for a grown man to cry.
3 Kherdine 23 January 2009 @ 8:25 am
This was beautiful. The passion you possess for fatherhood is apparent to anyone who’s seen you with your kids. Thanks for sharing.
4 Regina Jones 23 January 2009 @ 11:32 am
This made me think of my father who is so much like you and your father! I must admit I shed a few tears and have a very strong urge to call my dad, even though I will be seeing him tonight.
Thanks!
5 Mom 23 January 2009 @ 11:35 am
Well, Josh, you’ve just put words to what every parent who truly loves their kids feels as they grow up and away WAY to quickly. After all, it seems like yesterday that you were Mia and Ezra’s ages. Time does fly, especially, it seems, when you don’t want it to. So, in case you didn’t know, I love you and I’m proud of you and I think you’re a great Dad…just like your dad. Good job, buddy! xoxoxo
6 Christina 23 January 2009 @ 11:36 am
Obviously I cry very easily as you well know. But this made me sob. I only wish I could express myself as well as you. I feel the same way about out kids, I can’t believe how fast they are growing up! Thanks for writing this. You are a wonderful father and our kids are so lucky to have you.
7 Peg 23 January 2009 @ 9:10 pm
We finally have a male in the family that isn’t afraid to say what he is feeling!!! Ya-hoo!! I loved your Christmas letter for the same reason . . . it expressed your feelings and made me feel like I had been there and done that with you. Since I missed the wonderful opportunity of children . . . it really helped me understand what it would be like to have had children - Thank You from the bottom of my heart for sharing. And, now we can finally put away that awful phrase “Cowboy-up”!
xoxoxo
8 Dad 23 January 2009 @ 10:59 pm
Josh, I’m sitting here trying to think of what to say about your story. It’s always hard for me to put into words what I’m feeling. Your story hits real deep-it makes me stop and think back on my life beginning with the first day I laid eyes on you and held you. The rest is history but, it’s history that you love to remember. So many fond memories of you growing up. And man, the day we left you at Boston University, I cried all the way to the Massachusets state line. I also remember that day I got the orders for Korea. Man, that day wasn’t good at all. Just think if I went. Our lives would be different than they are now huh? But I didn’t and again, the rest is history. Oh, have I told you lately that I’m very proud of you and love you very much.
Dad xoxo
9 Doug F. 24 January 2009 @ 12:25 pm
Josh, that ws one of the most moving peices I have ever had the fortune to read. No one who’s a parent, truly a parent, can read that without feeling those mysterious wet spots on the cheeks. If it is true, that you can inherit emotionalism through the genes, then you have inherited it from both sides of the family, cousin. Hell, I can’t even make it through that “Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you” scene in Finding Nemo without blubbering like a baby. Again, a truly great piece of work.
10 Aubree 24 January 2009 @ 10:08 pm
You really do have a way with words. Thank you for sharing this with us. I wish I could express myself in writing half as well as you do. That made me cry, but in a good way.
11 Gma 25 January 2009 @ 12:50 pm
Another great one Josh !!!!! I’m your very proud, loving,happy to have you Gma !!!!!! xoxo
12 Donna 26 January 2009 @ 2:13 pm
I always knew you had a very soft heart. The way you always acted around your parents. Hope everything goes well with you and your family. It is very hard to see your children leave the nest. It was that way when Robert left. I hope to see him soon. Wish he could find someone who he could share his life with, and have a family. He can be real great with kids. Keep writing these messages to your children and Christine. Love you Donna
13 Kim 26 January 2009 @ 5:37 pm
Wow!! That was absolutely wonderful!!
14 Angela 26 January 2009 @ 11:01 pm
Amazing.
I’m going to go hug my babies while they sleep.
15 Sharon 5 February 2009 @ 9:54 pm
I’ve managed to dry my considerable tears after reading this moving letter to Mia & Ezra. I admire you for your ability to put your feelings into such beautiful words, and your willingness to share them with everyone. When Christina was growing up we could only hope that someday she would find a wonderful man who would love her as much as we do, and who would be a good and loving husband and father. Our hopes and dreams were far exceeded the day you two were married, and when our precious grandchildren were born. Of course, I happen to believe that you’re pretty darn lucky to be loved by our daughter too! Love you lots!
Sharon
16 Lee 12 February 2009 @ 1:41 am
Found your blog while researching PPC related issues.
I can only say that your personal words about your children, and your Dad, are extremely touching…as are the commentaries from your loving family members. What a lucky bunch you are.
As I fellow inhabitant of this planet I feel comforted to know that the ripple-effect of your family’s legacy may well continue to bless the world, and grant others the grace of observing how ‘love’ is put into practice. All the best to you, and yours.
17 D 11 August 2009 @ 3:49 pm
i love that you love your kids.
Thanks for this blog. I love my dad more now.
-D
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