A year later
The boy and I went to Texas for Passover. The trip was pretty nice. It helps to fly an airline that offers dozens of TV channels.
Before I left, Beth said to me, “I know you get tense when you travel, but don’t forget that the most important thing is our son.”
The boy and I were fine. In Texas people kept telling me how much more relaxed he seemed. If he needed me, I was there, and if he couldn’t stay at the table, he went to the other room to draw or play. Maybe it’s that he’s a year older, but I can’t help but think that Beth would have been hovering over him the whole time.
It’s probably not a good idea to tell her that I let him cross streets by himself.
I’ve been noticing the way Beth and I talk about each other. Whenever I talk about her to the boy, I say “Mom” or “Momma.” As in “I think you left that at Momma’s house.” When she talks to him about me, she says “your father.” As in “Your father wants to talk to you.”
More and more people tell me what a good father I am. That’s just odd. I’ve always been a good father. I suppose I had to leave my wife learn that.