The Dad’s Deal – Part II

For my son’s first birthday I got him cosmetic penis surgery. I also got him a Star Wars toy but I imagine the surgery will have a bigger impact on his life, unless he gets cast as a distant Skywalker relative in Star Wars Episode Eighteen, the Phantom Penis.

My son was born with a condition called hypospadias. Instead of having his urethra at the tip of his penis, it was located on the underside where the head meets the shaft. A quick Google search will tell you that as many as 1 in 125 newborns are born with the condition and many grow up never knowing it’s abnormal.

My son’s abnormal penis led me to ponder, what does it mean to be a father in 2018?

Popular culture depicts the importance of passing down strength and masculinity to our male heirs. In medieval times a father would pass down a powerful sword. In the old west a father would pass down a trusted rifle. In my parents’ generation a father would pass down a storied baseball bat. But this is 2018 and the rules have changed. I’m not sending my son to fight for our family’s honor. He won’t be protecting the ranch from outlaws. He might choose a ballet uniform instead of a baseball cap. And I’m cool with that.

Christina and I weren’t even sure if we were going to circumcise our son. Why make a choice for him that less than half the men on Earth have made? Isn’t he perfect as he was created? But right after Christina gave birth and the oxytocin was flowing, floating us in the love bubble of the miracle of life, the pediatrician on duty came by to inspect Mason. Immediately, he recognized Mason’s abnormal penis. Our perfect little son isn’t perfect? HOW DARE YOU, SIR!!!

The first most common argument to do the penis repair surgery is normalcy.

Doctors would mention without surgery it could make it hard to do normal man things like pee standing up. His penis would also be different from his peers which could be tough in the adolescent years. They also assured us that after the surgery he would have a “beautiful penis.” As a practice, I don’t champion normalcy. Isn’t the spice of life that we are all a little different? Would it be worth it to have my infant son endure a surgery just to be normal? Is it my job as a father to ensure my son has a “beautiful penis”?

The second most common argument is fertility.

An unrepaired penis could make sex and conception difficult. This wasn’t a decision between myself and my wife. It was a decision for my son, for his future lovers, for potential grandchildren, for the continuation of my bloodline. Forget a sword, a rifle or a bat, I had something more important to pass down, a functioning penis. We decided to schedule the surgery.

Just before my first Father’s Day with my son, I wrote an essay about my father’s death experience and the Deal he passed down to me. I wanted him to read the essay to make sure I got everything right. My mother had printed out a copy and we sat in the living room as she read it out loud. My parents went in painstaking detail over each sentence, critiquing my writing. For the record, this is the worst way in history to have your art critiqued: by your parents, out loud, on a day when you are supposed to be celebrated. I would have gone through a thousand penis surgeries to avoid this.

As we got further into the essay my dad spoke up, “You know that the deal hasn’t predetermined anything for you?”

“I know.” I replied.

“Do you want to know what the deal was?”

I had considered that after sharing the story with him it might lead to him explaining the deal. I had come to terms with the fact that I might never know, but was ready if he wanted to share.

“Yes.” I replied.

“When I was up in the corner of the room looking down at my body, the beings said, ‘It’s not your time. You have to go back. You have to take care of the kids.’” He explained.

At the time of the accident, he didn’t have any kids. He wasn’t even still in a relationship with my mom. Yet the higher powers instructed him to take care of the kids. Maybe the deal wasn’t predetermining any aspects of my life but simply assuring that I would receive my life?

But the decree, “You have to take care of the kids” goes further than just ensuring life.

It demands care. I can’t speak to this statement as an ethos for my father but I certainly felt cared for growing up. Work never came before a baseball game or a Boy Scouts camping trip. We always had food on the table and I never felt the psychological burden of what it took to put it there.

Hippies will tell you that love is free. I don’t believe that to be true. To really value love, you have to pay for it. My father paid for it through two car accidents. He saw the future love that could be taken away from him. I’ve had break ups that wrecked me but made me appreciate my wife. I’ve had career and creative lows that embarrassed me and made the highs more special. When you have children, you pay for it everyday.

Taking our child to surgery was terrifying.

The little ball of unconditional love had been with us for a little over a year. A near sleepless year. A year that having a second child wasn’t twice as hard but somehow four times as hard. But there was always those eyes and that smile. It made all of it worth it. Even in routine surgery there was risk. Anytime a one year old has to be put under anesthesia there could be complications. I loved him so much and in worrying about losing that love, I was paying for it.

Christina, Mason and I drove to the surgery center bright and early. We were the first surgery at 6:45 A.M. My dad came to our house to watch Grace for the day. It was a somber drive. Our minds raced looking for signs to turn around. Any excuse to not put him through the surgery would suffice. We arrived and checked in. The nurses did all the normal nurse things. As time passed, a nurse poked her head in and said the surgeon was running late.

Was this a sign? Was it too late to back out?

Now we waited even more anxiously for the surgeon’s arrival. When he showed up he apologized for being late. He had to drop his kids at daycare. I guess there was something reassuring that the surgeon had a family of his own. He would understand the gravity of what he was about to undertake. He wasn’t just some random weirdo that loved cutting up kid peens. I looked him deep in his eyes to see if he was settled and ready to operate. I surmised he was.

Christina walked with Mason and the anesthesiologist to a back room to administer his anesthesia. With a few puffs of the gas mask and a few tears, Mason was asleep. Christina met me in the waiting room. Our eyes were wet. We hugged. Christina asked me, “Is he going to be OK?”

I checked in to my feelings and knew he would be OK. I responded with certainty and humor. “He’s going to be fine. This surgeon loves baby dicks. He’s the best at baby dicks.”

We laughed.

Two hours later the surgeon met us in the waiting room. The surgery was a success. Mason did great. We could see him in a few minutes. What a pro. Fix another baby dick, cash another check. Fix another baby dick, cash another check. This surgeon was all business and I loved it.

When we returned home my dad was waiting with Grace. He could tell how much of a toll the morning took on me. He hugged me and said, “Now you know what the deal means.”

And I did.