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Friday January 14, 2005

This father discovers the school of hard nachas

by dan pine

My son Aaron recently discarded his fake ID. He turned 21 a few months ago and just didn’t need it anymore. He can get smashed legally now.

Of course I was never thrilled that he had it, that he used it to go barhopping as a teen, or that he even drank at all. Somehow, I had hoped he would bypass the bacchanalian excesses of youth.

Fat chance.

Aaron has always been one to plunge headfirst through life without a helmet. Why stop just at the age when adult freedom tastes sweetest? Especially when his father hasn’t been around lately to exert much parental authority.

Today I watch Aaron from afar as he takes those first bold and beautiful steps toward adult independence. Quite far, as a matter of fact.

When I moved to the Bay Area in 2002, I left behind a well-entrenched life in Southern California: friends, work, haunts and habits. But mostly, I left my son behind and drove north, permanently.

It was the hardest move I ever had to make.

Usually the empty-nest syndrome crops up when the kids move away. Off to college, off to get married. But in my case, I was the one that moved away.

It felt unnatural.

As much as I wanted –– needed –– to be with my girlfriend here, leaving Aaron tore my heart out.

In the Torah we are commanded to “honor thy father and mother.” That’s probably because it’s not always so easy to honor them, and sometimes a little divine admonition is required. (Notice we are not commanded to actually love our parents.)

However, nobody needs a commandment to love his or her children. That ability comes standard, no assembly required. There might as well be a commandment to eat, drink and breathe.

Which is why, at least for most of us, doing anything to hurt our kids, however obliquely, often hurts us more than it does them.

So it was with my moving away. It was something I had to do, even though I worried it would sear Aaron deeply. Leaving him that way reminded me of that cognitively dissonant instruction from the flight attendant: Put your own oxygen mask on first before placing one on your kid.

In this case, I put my mask on first.

Now it’s almost three years later. Time wounds all heels.

Aaron is doing exceptionally well in college, has many friends, many burning ambitions. Life is a 10-course meal and he’s just seated himself at the table.

And here I am, 400 miles away. Welcome to the school of hard nachas.

His victories (straight A’s last semester) thrill me. His budding relationship with a lovely young woman (Jewish — whew!) delights me.

But IM-ing “Luv ya!!” to my son doesn’t quite cut it. Some things are better said with two arms and a smile.

Not long ago, I was in L.A. to visit Aaron. At one point, we got into an argument about something –– I can’t remember what –– and in a fit of pique, he snarled, “I’m not Jewish!”

I froze for a second. Then his whole Jewish life flashed before my eyes: age 6, his first tentative days in religious school; age 10, his first proud recitation of the Four Questions (in Hebrew) at the seder; his amazing homerun performance at his bar mitzvah; his now deeply felt allegiance to Israel.

And I knew I didn’t need to take his claim too seriously. It was just post-adolescent posturing, a little something to goose the old man.

Or maybe he said it, in part, to drive me away. After all, despite his protestations to the contrary two years ago, he had to have been pained that I left.

But it hit me. He can’t drive me away. Nothing he can do or say ever could, no matter how far I may have actually driven away.

I’m not too worried about the outburst. I predict Aaron will grow up, settle down and eventually reconnect with Judaism.

And I’ll be out there somewhere, cheering him on every step of the way. That’s the way love is, and a few hundred miles of interstate doesn’t change a thing.

Yes, I was the one that moved away first. But I refuse to be a distant relative.

Dan Pine lives and kvetches in Albany. He can be reached at dan@jweekly.com.

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