My Dad's Bigger Than Your Dad

I am sitting in my office one morning when Lars calls.

The last call was to inform me of his engagement.

Please let this one be to tell me that he's eloped and will be living with Liza in a commune in some remote Eastern nation.

Or that he's been abducted by aliens and I'll have to pick up the kids myself.

Or that he's been arrested and is being held on 5 billion dollars bail and would I be kind enough to post the bond so he could go back to wasting his life doing whatever it is he does. (Not likely...)

I reluctantly answer with "I will never let you know you rattle me" joyfulness.

It would not last.

I spent the next few minutes sitting nearly motionless, with my head resting on on palm, eyes closed. Lars was calling to tell me about a problem at school.

My sister has a quaint little stitched and framed piece of art in her cottage that depicts a hen. In quirky uneven stitching that makes it ever the more adorable, it reads "Raising 3 boys is like being pecked to death by a chicken."

I find this hilarious. Truly I do. But I also understand it in a more realistic way.

I remember being pregnant and feeling so protective of my belly and the little tiny being inside it who would be completely dependent upon me to do so. I was nearly overwhelmed by my need to protect my little tenant.

And I also remember having a near panic attack in the moments right after Pat was born when he struggled to "pink up" as the doctor implored him. And feeling desperate to help him. All I could think was "How will he know how much I love him? He can not hear me or feel me near him. Does he know that I am here to be his champion and his protector and would sacrifice anything for him?" But I could do nothing. I was immobilized by the resident stitching my episiotomy, how nice.

And when I brought him home, Lars and I would look at him endlessly, hoping for clues as to what he needed and willing to stomp anyone or anything to death, or darn close to it, if they so much as coughed on his precious little person.

And as he an Hil grew, I'd take precautions, and teach lessons and explain things. There were lots of "No, no, no!" and "Hot!" and "Owweee" comments when one of them would wander toward the stair, or reach toward the stove, or try to introduce Mr. Fork to Mrs. Electrical Outlet.

I remember feeling like everything posed a threat to my precious children. And I loved them so dearly and so completely and endlessly and unconditionally that I felt vulnerable in a way that I could barely comprehend. I remember seeing an ad for a Michele Pfeiffer movie, "The Deep End of the Ocean," and learning that it was about a woman's experience with having her child abducted from her. I remember thinking "My life would stop at that moment and nothing would ever matter ever again. It would consume me. There would be nothing else that could distract me from thinking about what my child could be experiencing and how to get him back. No need to see that little work of pure horror."

And now, even with all the years of holding my breath when they cross the street for the first time, and crossing my fingers as I see them onto the bus, or wincing on the sidelines as the ball is snapped, or delicately guiding them through the first betrayals by friends or love interests who lose interest, you'd think I'd be confidently prepared for the big guns.

But truly nothing can prepare you to hear what Lars called to say.

"Pat is being bullied by three kids at school."