Dad's Post-Partum Depression
Or is it actually joy? (a song for the fathers)
Come my little son And I will tell you what we’ll do. Undress yourself and get into bed And a tale I'll tell to you. It's all about your daddy, He's a man you seldom see, For he had to roam far away from home, Away from you and me.
So here’s my problem: I have to leave my wife and newborn son four days a week, about eleven hours each day. To work. To make money. To go on living here in the Empire because that’s how we do things: You leave your kids to support your kids. Doesn’t make sense, per se, but then again, not much does in our so-called civilization.
This is a problem, for me, the whole leave-your-family-to-support-your-family paradox, because I like being with my wife, my son. Doesn’t feel good to leave. Doesn’t feel right. I’m missing out on time with my boy. Every hour with him, every minute, is priceless. Can’t get it back. Plus, while I’m away, it’s on Tana to do it all, carry it all—what if she gets tired, bored, lonely, has a back spasm like she did a few weeks ago? Our friend Andy was there twenty minutes after the spasm, and then my mom came in to pinch hit. We are not alone. But we’re not living in a village, either. Not really. We are living in the Empire.
For all our talk about the importance of family here in the Empire, what the Empire actually does to families is break them up, on the daily, as a matter of course, a way of life. Five days a week, for most of us. 8-12 hours a day or more. So that business as usual can continue. The Empire doesn’t use force to drive families apart. No bullwhips needed, at this point. All it needs is the story, the idea, that to work is somehow more respectable, more valuable, more interesting, more important and necessary and worthy than being with our kids.
And then of course there’s the whole if-you-don’t-have-money-you-die thing. That’s a real kick in the nuts. We want our kids to live, and it’s been generations since we’ve had the knowledge to live without money, the skills to hunt, gather, farm, heal. We’ve kind of boxed ourselves into a corner on that one. Most of us rely on this Empire for our survival. So, we have to leave. Our families. Our kids. To make sure they survive.
Fuck.
I didn’t see this arrangement as a problem until my son arrived five months ago. I thought it was just the natural course of things, just the way things are.
And sure, this is just the way things are, but not because it’s natural. Not for me, at least. For me, leaving my wife and baby slumbering in bed together at sunrise; getting into my car; pulling onto 295; driving down to Portland; finding an empty spot in the parking garage; walking to my office building; sitting down at my desk; logging onto my computer to check emails, have meetings, “work”—this all goes against my natural instincts as a new father, which demand in no uncertain terms: to stay close, to be with, to give a steady stream of the most essential thing I have to offer, any parent has to offer: our presence.
But this is what we do. What we have to do, the commonfolk. And so, common man that I am, I returned to work when my unpaid paternity leave petered out after three months. I took up my place once again in the long line of commuter traffic on 295, my place in the long line of men over the course of ages, my ancestors and yours, who have had to leave their families to go build the roads of the Empire, so the Empire can continue, so our kids can live on.
Remember lad, he's still your dad, Though he's working far away, In the cold and the heat, 80 hours a week, On England's motorway.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I used to think I might very well be an uncommon man. Above it all. An exception to the rule. There are exceptions in the Empire. The ones who make it big, make it out. It could always be you. I thought it was me. Landing a six-figure book deal straight out of college, surely that was proof of my great ascension.
It all happened over the course of about six weeks. This American Life picked up my radio piece about walking across America. I signed on with a very legit literary agent, slapped together a book proposal STAT. And then, sweet Jesus, my agent (my agent!) calls me one fine morning to tell me that a publisher, one of the Big Daddies, is wondering if $250,000 will start the conversation. $325k later and I am flying, soaring, cartwheeling gloriously into the open skies of my destiny. I kept it solemn on the outside, metered. Inside, I was bursting with rainbows, a non-stop parade of confetti and New Orleans brass. My great escape was in motion. No longer was I bound to the the sad reality of the noble masses toiling away on the ground, God bless them. “Most men live lives of quiet desperation,” Thoreau said. Poor bastards. Not me. Good luck, fellas. I’ll see you when you I see you. Now it’s up, up, and awaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!!
So yeah, it’s twelve years later, we just had a kid, and I’m back at the office. Closing out my first month in the grind again. And actually it hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be. I like my job for the most part, doing restorative justice in public schools. Great people. Meaningful projects. And the commute isn’t that bad, could be way worse. But see there’s this one teeny tiny little issue, which is, you know, THE FACT THAT WE JUST HAD A BABY AND THAT’S THE ONLY ACTUAL THING I CARE ABOUT RIGHT NOW AND EVERY ATOM OF ME IS SAYING I’M SUPPOSED TO BE AT THE HOUSE WITH MY SON AND MY WIFE AND WHAT THE FUCK IS THE DEAL WHY AM I IN THIS OFFICE RIGHT NOW THIS MEETING THIS CLASSROOM THIS SYSTEM I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE WHY DO WE DO IT THIS WAY SHOULDN’T WE BE PAYING MOMS AND DADS TO BE MOMS AND DADS FULL-TIME THINK ABOUT THE CONSEQUENCES OF KIDS NOT GETTING TO BE WITH MOM AND DAD AS MUCH AS THEIR BRAINS AND HEARTS AND SPIRITS NEED JUST THINK ABOUT THE ADULTS THOSE BABIES BECOME THE NEURAL CONNECTIONS THAT NEVER HAPPEN THE DYSREGULATED NERVOUS SYSTEMS THE VASOVAGAL SHUTDOWN THE EMOTIONAL STARVATION THE SPIRITUAL POVERTY THAT BECOMES THE NORM AND THEN THINK ABOUT IT THOSE ADULTS WERE THE ONES WHO BUILT THIS EMPIRE THE MATRIX THE MAN WHICH NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH WHICH MEANS I HAVE TO GO TO WORK INSTEAD OF BEING THERE WITH MY BABY BOY YOU FUCKING BASTARD MOTHERFU…
There’s this guy in my head talking all caps like this non-stop while I’m on the clock. He’s always there in the background, pissed. I can turn the volume down, but never mute him. No matter how smooth the transition back to work (actually quite smooth), no matter how fantastic the people (really fantastic), no matter how inspiring the work (so inspiring I came home the other day actually quite lit about it), this all-caps guy is committed to his position, which is, in short: WE SHOULD NOT BE MAKING PARENTS LEAVE THEIR KIDS IN ORDER TO SUPPORT THEIR KIDS THAT SHIT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE AT ALL. He has more to say about it but that’s the gist.
Is this post-partum depression, I wonder? Is that a thing, for men? Do dads get it, too?
At least I know the plight of the common man, I tell myself. At least I’m not up there in the skies, flying around in ignorance of what it’s actually like down here. Yeah, it’s a good thing I didn’t get rich and famous. I would be totally out of touch. Helplessly self-deceiving and deluded. Earnest, of course. Beautifully sincere. But unaware. Unconscious. Not in a bad way, just a you-don’t-know-what-you-haven’t-lived kind of way.
Yes, it’s better like this, boots on the ground. Much better.
This is what I tell myself.
Now when you fall and hurt yourself And get up feeling bad It isn't any good to go running for your dad For the only time since you were born He's had to spend with you He was out of a job And he hadn't a bob He was signing on the brew.
After I signed that contract with the publisher, I hit the road again. This time in a car, not walking. My brand new Forester, fresh off the lot—thanks, Big Daddy! I started criss-crossing the country, one month here, two months there. I wanted to write this book about my walk on the very roads where I’d walked it. The backwoods of Alabama. The high desert of New Mexico. New Orleans. And I had to write in New York, of course. Brooklyn. That wasn’t on my walking route, but if you were truly one of the greats, which surely I was, you had to have some kind of presence in The City. So I did my duty, spent a summer there.
That summer was when I first felt the wax beginning to melt from my wings. It was during a meeting with my editor at a Midtown cafe. She had just finished reading my first draft after almost a year of solitary work, a deep dive of mad Kerouac-ian genius. I was so excited to finally meet up with her, see her incredulity, witness her awe. But something was amiss in her eyes when we sat down. There was a kindness in her tone, a gentleness, and not the good kind. Reminded me of how my college girlfriend sounded on the phone right before she broke up with me.
Later, she sent me an 18-page editorial letter, her feedback. I could read between the lines. She was freaking out. She was a fairly new editor herself, and she’d taken a big gamble on me, an unknown, unpublished youngster, and my first draft was, well, not what she thought it would be.
Which is to say, ’twas a steaming pile of cow dung.
But there was a contract. We’d all signed it. And not every masterpiece comes out in a single night of boozy bohemian brilliance. So what if my first draft was crap? I would get back to work. I would make it right. It would become the compost for the spectacular blossoming that I knew this book was going to be.
A few months later, I was out in Wyoming for a writers residency (a writers residency!) when my agent calls me (did I tell you about my agent?) and says that my editor has moved on to a new publishing house, an even Bigger Daddy, and she hasn’t taken me with her. An orphaned manuscript, it’s called. It happens, he says. It’s no big deal. My publisher will assign me a new editor. We’re all good. The sun’s still shining. The skies, still vast.
And then, a few months later, I’m writing in the Bay (yeah, you know, just camped out here in San Francisco working on my book) when I got a call from my agent (God I love those words, just try ’em out, “I got a call from my agent”) who tells me Big Daddy wants to terminate my contract.
That first phone call, I was too shocked to say much of anything. It was the second call with my man Dan that I regret. I’ve never yelled at anyone (besides my dad) the way I yelled at him that day, such was my rage, my terror that I might be falling back to earth. Sorry about that, Dan (and Dad).
We did find a new publisher. And we got the book out. And there was a good long stretch there—about five years—where I could still think of myself as above the fray of having to do shit I didn’t actually-truly-in-the-depths-of-my-soul want to do in order to make a living. And if I ever did get to be a dad, I knew I would be a dad who never had to leave. I would be there, always, for my lady, whoever she might be, and for our kids, if ever we got to have them. We’d be like that family I met once on the road who lived in a biodiesel school bus, traveling the world together. Five kids. Scraping by, making it work. Except, in our case, we’d have lots of money from all my book deals.
Remеmber, lad, he's still your dad Though hе's working far away In the cold and heat, 80 hours a week On England's motorway
And then I met Tana. And we both wanted kids, soon. We decided to give the dream (or was it a fantasy and have I just been on a huge ego trip this whole time?) one more year. One year, for things to really take off. One year, to land another mega book deal.
I’d been working on a second memoir, this one about masculinity. On faith, no contract. Four years of solitary Kerouac-ian genius. I sent the manuscript to Dan. We didn’t talk much anymore, but he was still my agent. He told me he’d check it out.
Almost a year goes by without hearing back. Finally, after several inquiries, I get bold. I tell him either you’re in or you’re out. He responds the next day, apologizes for the delay, tells me it’s a noble idea but he doesn’t think it’s going to sell. Says it’s time to part ways.
Thus it was that I dusted off my resume, hopped onto Indeed, and started looking for a job.
Sure, we'd like your daddy here, Yes sure it would be fine To have him working near our home And to see him all the time. But beggars can't be choosers, son, And we have to bear our load, For we need the money your daddy earns A-working on the road.
It’s only now that I’m beginning to understand something a friend of mine told me on my walk across America. I’d made it to his home in Abilene, Texas, where he was putting me up for a week. He had just become a dad, an unexpected pregnancy with his girlfriend. He was trying to finish school while working two, or was it three jobs—washing dishes, customer service on the phones, that kind of thing. I admired him, had awe for him, but also pity, and fear, too. What would become of his dreams? Did he even have dreams anymore?
His wife gave us a few hours one night, and we climbed the roof of an abandoned factory, the kind of thing we used to do in high school. At the top, under the big Texas nightsky, I got out my recorder for a proper interview. Was he afraid at all, to become a dad so soon?
“For me,” he said, “it’s these overbearing fears that I won’t be able to give them the life they deserve because of mistakes I might make. I fear that I’m going to work and work and work and never be able to give enough to them. At first I had this whole vision of this sad life working at, you know, Whataburger or something like that, coming home smelling like French fries and my son is a jerk because he has no father to parent him. I think it just comes about because the stress builds up inside of me. Turning in papers late, rushing to my job but still getting there late, working my tail off but coming up short at the end of the month, having to wait until next month to pay the bills. It’s just hard, man, you know?”
I didn’t.
“But it’s been a magical time in my life,” he went on. “It’s been incredible. I was about to graduate and I was so tired of not having a purpose. With the birth of a child there’s clarity. You know what you have to do, and it doesn’t really matter what you do to get there. I don’t care what kind of job I have, to be perfectly honest with you. It doesn’t matter. But I know I have to provide a home. I have to have a working car. I have to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. And I’m willing to sacrifice anything that I have to get that for my wife and my son.”
I’m tearing up as I transcribe his words, printed in the pages of my book. Because I get it, finally. And I am surprised to find joy in this understanding. The greatest joy of my life to realize, for myself, that it literally does not fucking matter, I will become one of them, I will take my place in that long line of men, I will do the dad thing, anything, whatever it takes to support my son, my wife, even if it means I have to leave them.
Yes remеmber, lad, he's still your dad And he'll soon be home to stay For a week or two With me and you When he's built the motorway.
I first heard this song in a pub on the west coast of Ireland, before Tana, before Valor, during my Icarus days. I heard only sorrow in the song, then. Now, I still the hear the sorrow, but I also hear the joy.
It’s almost more than I can handle, the joy. My friend Mori said it’s like trying to look straight at the sun. Or how God said to Moses, “You cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.”
Actually, I’ve seen the face of God twice since Valor was born.
The first time it happened, he was around two weeks old. In those early days, when suddenly we had a baby now, it was all systems go, all hands on deck, daddy’s getting shit done, the endless loads of laundry, bowls of congee, infinity dishes and diapers. He needed to be held, rocked. She needed a foot rub, her water bottle filled, the corn bag reheated. The joy was there, of course, but I didn’t really have time to feel it.
It wasn’t until I was out for a walk one day in the backyard woods at sunset, about two weeks after the birth, when finally God was like, “You know what, fuck it, Ima show him my face.” I don’t know how it started, how I got there, but sure enough there I was, on my knees in the middle of the snow-covered frozen lake, suddenly seeing through saltwater, hardly able to breathe, producing the kinds of sounds that would make anyone think something was terribly, horribly wrong.
The second time it happened, it was the night before I went back work. We’d been together in that postpartum bubble for three months uninterrupted, the best days of my life, and not without struggles, sure, but every sleepless minute was an unspeakable gift, every mustard poo a blessing beyond measure, even his cries, a holy treasure. Because he was here, our son. And we were together, our pack, in this paradise of the present.
But now, the next day at sunrise, I’d have to leave. And for the foreseeable future, maybe for the rest of my life, I would be leaving him, leaving my son.
Tana was in the kitchen getting dinner ready. I was holding him, dancing in the living room to our Valor playlist, when suddenly Peter Gabriel made his ever-iconic entrance, those first few bars of “In Your Eyes.” The song, I realized in a Moses-on-the-mountain moment, was about my son. His eyes, the doorway to a thousand churches. My eyes, now tearing up.
“I get so tired working for our survival,” Peter sings, and oh man here we go, the sorrow starts to flow for real, but then he sings, “I look to the tiiiiiiime with you, to keep me awake and alive,” and now I see it, now I understand, it’s also joy pouring out of me, joy running down my cheeks, which I smear onto Valor’s cheeks, because I don’t care, truly-actually-when-push-comes-to-shove-don’t-give-a-single-solitary-turdlet-of-a-deuce, will do anything, give anything, give up everything, whatever it takes, and he will keep me awake and alive, all I’ll ever have to do is look “iiiin yoouur eyes,” the resolution of all my fruitless searches, my grand facade incinerated, swaying with my son in the living room, in this cosmos, and I’m almost cramping up it’s hitting so hard, the Peter Gabriel KO kidney punch to the heart, “without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the insiiiiide” and now I’m thinking of all the dads who’ve ever had to leave, reaching out from the inside, did they love like this, did they feel like this, my silent grandfather who worked three jobs to support six kids, the man who just wanted to watch a little TV when he finally got home after dinner, the man my dad hardly ever saw, hardly knew heart to heart, man to man, was it like this for him on the inside, all of my grandfathers, the men, without a noise, going back to work, because that’s how we do things here, that’s what has to be done, and it can be done, will be done, because “I am complete,” in his eyes, “in your eyes, in your eyes, in your eyes.”
Then Phil Collins comes on. “Strangers Like Me” from the Tarzan soundtrack. Different vibe. I can breathe again. Stagger into the kitchen. Tana sees me.
“You were crying?” she goes.
“Yeah,” I say. “Peter popped me good.”
“Why didn’t you say something? I love it when you cry.”
“It needed some privacy.”
She takes Valor from me. Goes into the living room to dance with him. I work on finishing dinner. Christ but now Phil Collins is getting to me. I’m starting to leak over the stirfry.
“I wanna know! Please show me!” It’s about my boy again, this life we get to live together. “Take my hand, there’s a world I need to knooooooooooooowww!”
Really? Phil Collins? Tarzan? I must be severely compromised right now. I decide what the hell, I’ll show Tana this time, so I go into the bedroom where she’s lying down with Valor now and he’s nursing and the Himalayan salt lamp is glowing rose in the dark, not bright enough to see my face, but the sounds give me away and she makes a contented little “hmmm.”
This is the obliterating face of God, and no, I am not surviving it. Not that night before my first day back. Not now, a month later, Father’s Day, my son sleeping in the bed next to my desk as I write these words, Rose cuddled up beside him. The old reliable ox of who I was before my son, and the fatted calf of who I thought I wanted to be, both sacrificed at this altar of my fatherhood. Gladly. Of course. In joy. Underneath the all-caps lamentation: joy. Within the matrix, the system, the man: joy. Joy, no matter what. Joy, no matter where, no matter how. It is only ever actually always, joy: to be a dad, to be his dad, the father of Valor.
Thank you, Dad. Thank you all the dads. I raise my glass to you in this imaginary Irish pub, this Empire, this cosmos. We’ll keep doing what we have to do, best we can. And I’ll see you on 295 tomorrow morning.
Happy Father’s Day, Andrew. Incredible piece. Perhaps your next book was waiting for you to become a dad first.
Ahhh yes from the mustard poop to the face of God - I see it too in my children & your son also. Continue to serve to the best of your ability and we'll create more real everyday heroes ~ Thanks poppa Andrew 👶