This morning I was with my youngest boy JT.  Mami took Q.  JT has been sick for the last few days.  We spent the earlier part of the morning playing dinosaurs and trying to learn that, “We do not wipe our mocos (as in mucus, buggers, bogies or whatever else you want to call them) with our hands.”  The “we” in “We do not wipe our mocos…” is something I find myself using pretty often.  It’s my way of making the point that we are a family or that we (the family) have certain ground rules.  But sometimes, not often, but sometimes, OK pretty often, the “we” means…“me.”  As in, “I don’t want you to do that.  So, don’t do it.” 
 

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There are people who say that they don’t insist their child do this or that.  “My child makes up his/her own mind,” they say, or “I don’t make them wear what I want because it’s their body.”  And the real biggie, “I take care of my child but they don’t belong to me.  They are their own person.” 
 

Well, that is not me or at least not at this point.  Right now I have no problem saying that my boys are mine.  Now, I recognize that each of my sons is becoming his own person and that they are little individuals with minds and opinions of their own but I can’t lie.  Right now it’s all about these boys being mine and how much I love it.  That’s right, I said it, mine. 

When I hug them and kiss them it is because I’m amazed and so overjoyed that they are mine. 

When I see pictures of them two or three months back and notice how much they have grown, they’re mine. 

When we walk together down the street and one of them passes gas; in the mist of the laughter, the twinkle in their eyes, a knowing smile…they are all mine. 

And likewise, when they have a bad day at school, they’re mine.  When they throw up at the mall, they are mine.  When they accidentally smack a cousin with a golf club at a family party, you got it…mine.  And when they begin to answer back and talk to me with the same words I just used with them, they are definitely mine.  And that’s my point.  Right now our boys are learning to be “them” by taking from “us”. They’re like little leaches and Mami and I are playing host (OK, the leech and host thing might have ruined the beauty of the “mine” riff but stay with me).

Yes, our boys are wonderful and yes they have opinions but right now they are looking for things that they can borrow and call their own.  Let’s be honest, they’re looking for things they can steal from us and stash away to create an initial sense of self; of who they are.  And they’re gonna mix it with whatever genetic “set in stone” stuff they’ve already inherited.  

To stretch yet another analogy, our boys are like bad comedians who listen to good comedians so they can take the act and pass it off as their own.  And if the audience hates the jokes who do you think the boys are gonna blame? That’s right, Mami and Papi.

Right now our 4 year old, Q is very good at coming up with reasons why the things that happen to him are our fault, and more often than not, Mami’s fault.  He’ll say, “But Mami, why didn’t you tell me the chair was there?  You made me trip.”  Or, a very popular one that happens when Mami screams because someone is about to touch the hot stove or grab an alligator, is “Mami, why did you scream?  You scared me. 
You made me burn myself [or grab the alligator].” 

My point is that if it all comes back to us, if the things they need, want or accidentally do are our responsibility and our fault, then I have no problem saying that the boys are mine?

That having been said (and probably overstated), I know that someday they will no longer be “mine” in the same way.  I don’t pretend to know what it’s like for a father to let go of his children when the time comes.  Some of you may be able to enlighten me on this.  I can only hope to make it an easy process for them when the time comes, much like my parents made it for me.

Yes, my boys will always be my babies, as my mother always says, but I guess they’ll be mine from a distance.  One of the blessings from my own parents has been their ability to let go and respect my space and choices, which is not always a given in a Latino family.  My father in particular has always said that when we started our own families he wouldn’t have the right to butt in (
Yo no tengo porque estarme metiendo
).  This doesn’t mean “every man for himself” in the nuclear-family sense but a way of recognizing our independence and that we own our responsibilities.

Still, my boys are 2 and 4 so I’ll cut myself some slack for a while and continue to claim a daddy’s right to be possessive.  And anyway, who knows what I’ll be like when the boys are 7, 10, 14 or 17.  Maybe I’ll be looking for creative ways to give them away.  And the truth is that I do encourage them to express their selves, make choices and discover consequences.  But being where I’m at right now, it doesn’t always come smoothly. 

I said that JT is sick today.  We played for a while this morning and when I wanted to get some work done I switched on the TV and found a Public Television cartoon.  JT has never been too much into the tube and this morning he watched the cartoon for about five minutes before he came to me and wanted to play.  I told him to give me some time and if he didn’t want to watch the cartoon he could go play in his room.  He didn’t like the choices so he went and sat on the sofa.  A few minutes later he got up, walked over to the TV and turned it off. 

Caught off guard and fearful that I had just lost my baby sitter I said, “No, son.”  It took me about three seconds to hear what I had just said.  Here I was a parent telling my 2 year old NOT to turn off the TV (collective gasps across the country). 

He had it right.  He didn’t want to watch television or to be “encouraged” to watch it, so he turned it off.  The words “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” kept playing in my head.  I tried my best to erase the “No” I’d just said by adding, “I mean, that’s alright, son…that’s fine, son…we’ll play soon, son [beginning to whispering to my self] and Daddy’s a bit of a jerk, son.”  

The choice to turn off the TV was all JT.  And I guess that’s where the lesson is for me.  He is mine but he’s not me.  My job is to love and parent what I feel is mine until its time to turn things over to them.  Then I hope to watch them run with it.