Same Place, Same Face

The jagged boardwalk made me nervous. What if the boy started running (as three-year-olds are inclined to do), crashing to the unwelcoming wood below him, splinters invading his knees and palms? Thoughts like that had become a common part of my life from the moment I found out my wife was pregnant. That beautiful summer day was no exception as the three of us walked in the shadow of Wonder Wheel, trying to find a little peace near the ocean in an otherwise bustling city.

We eventually found a concrete path which took us to one of the most famous hot dog establishments in the world: Nathan's. Devin and I stood outside as my wife went to place an order. People walked back and forth, some sporting a variety of tattoos that were displayed on backs and arms; and there I was on guard as always. In front of me I noted the chatter of busy people. I realized it was directed toward me.

A woman with a lazy eye provided an assessment, "You can't deny that boy is yours!" "Oh no, you couldn't fight that in court. Look at that boy," her male companion said in agreement.

I smiled not wanting to seem rude. The problem with smiling is that it makes people want to keep on talking when you'd rather not. So I suffered through the standard interrogation that most new parents must endure from strangers, hoping for my wife to emerge and save me. When she came out of the restaurant with cheese covered fries, the conversation and focus shifted toward her.

"Look at you! It's like you didn't have anything to do with making that little boy. You did all the work and get none of the credit."

We laughed at the friendly lady's words and continued on in that fashion for a few more minutes—then they were gone. It was just another day out in the world with my family.

For as long as my son Devin has been on this earth we have shared both a home and an almost identical face. The observant often comment amongst themselves on how similar our features are. They talk loud enough for me to hear, because they want to be heard. They want me to know that we have been noticed. The friendly ones, and there are quite a few of those, waltz right up to Devin and I and say things like, "You don't need a DNA test to prove you're the father."

We've heard them all.

The attention my son and I get sometimes is fine with me. I like the spotlight as much as anyone that grew from a boy to a man during the ongoing media craze that seems to have engulfed the entire world. It can actually be amusing on the right day, under the right circumstances.

What bothers me is how even the nicest folks inadvertently imply, through their wording, that I would ever consider denying that Devin is my son. I'm sure that their comments are not intended to sound negative, but occasionally they do.

I can't even imagine myself in a state of daddy denial. The thought of not seeing Devin's face first thing in the morning would be as if I were not seeing my own face. My mother and grandmother have shown me pictures proving that he bears the same countenance as me when I was his age. So how could I deny him?

Before Devin came along I was poorly defined, but now I see so much of myself in him. It is as if his simple existence has helped to give me definition. He's starting to see himself in me, too. Not too long ago, and out of nowhere, my son told me, "I want to be good Daddy when I grow up, just like you." After getting over the initial dread of being a grandfather before my time, I realized what he meant. It was his way of telling me that he thought I was doing a good job—that he loved me.

On a perfect spring day I was thrust into fatherhood, and I'm allowing that momentum to carry me into the future, without even the slightest hint of denial.