The Rules

When my brother or I went off to do something dangerous in our teens--like driving more than fifty feet--my mom would always ask about where we were going, what we were doing, and with whom. When (not if) we gave her the dropped-shoulders-rolling-eyes-**sigh**, as if she were an Orwellian Big Brother monitoring our every move, she would reply: "Mothers are allowed to worry. It's written right there in the Parents' Handbook, page fourteen." That became the cue for us to stop our adolescent moping and accept this show of overwrought concern.

It never occurred to us to ask to see this handbook to do some fact-checking.

I can't remember what I thought early on, but around the time of graduation from high school and entering university I remember actively deciding that this text existed only in the parabolic universe my mom had constructed in order to express her love for us. There certainly was no such book in reality. If there were, I would have seen it, right? At some point it would have been summoned during one of the more difficult arguments--like the proper volume for one's music when one lives in the downstairs bedroom--in order to set me straight. Accordingly, I had convinced myself that this manual for parenthood did not exist.

Until Gwendolyn showed up on the scene.

Then, on a visit to our home in order to shower preparatory blessings on us before the birth of our daughter, my mom delivered a gift-wrapped package. I opened the card on the outside of the box, and discovered there that I was about to unwrap the great tome of wisdom to which my mother so often referred in my youth. With trembling hands I removed the glossy paper and pulled off the box top. There lay a book with ornate cover design, as thick and heavy as one would expect from a parenting manual. It had no title on the cover or spine, as if hiding the occult secrets within from the uninitiated, so that no mistaken eyes might pull this from the shelf.

With a spirit of anxious anticipation I removed the book from the box and lay it on my lap. Page fourteen would be my first destination, to confirm this ancient wisdom about worrying. I wanted to know whether I was doomed to the same fate of concern for my child. I hooked a finger under the cover and opened it, only to discover the opening pages were blank.

I turned more pages and met only the pristine ivory of untouched leaves, free from the stain of ink. Every page was empty.

Before my mom said it, I knew: we make up the rules of parenting. If we get any wisdom, it's from people with faces, not from books with pages. Otherwise, it's us and the Spirit. No rules to hem in or lock out. I felt both relieved and terrified.

Thanks, Mom.

I thought of this book last night. Gwendolyn had awoken with such screaming that I had to wonder if she were having a night terror. She would not be quieted by rocking, cooing, singing, or cuddling. All five of us--including her grandparents, Lord bless them--were awake, wondering what to do. On a lark I took her outside into the cool desert light of the moon. She calmed down, and I brought her in, at which moment she began screaming again.

I put on my Sambas, the perfect midnight complement to my pajama shirt and Hawai'i pants, lay Gwendolyn in the stroller with a blanket, and walked her down the street. At ten o'clock at night, the only sound in this fifty-five-plus gated community was the cluck of the stroller wheels beating the concrete cracks like the lulling hymn of a railway car. I sung, I whispered, I prayed. Gwendolyn stared, silent, as the yellow shadows of the streetlights swept by.

Gwendolyn was almost asleep when I heard another sound: the high-pitched bay of coyotes just across the wall in the open desert. I realized I was one guy with an infant and only a cell phone to protect him. I'm not sure it's fit to be assigned a page number in the Parents' Handbook, but last night I made up a rule: don't stray far from the house with your baby when there are coyotes about. At least not without a really big stick.

When Gwendolyn gets old enough to understand the story, she might say, "Dad, you don't need to worry about me and the coyotes. I'll be fine." And I just might say, "Gwendolyn, it says it right there in the Parents' Handbook: parents are allowed to worry. Page fourteen."

~emrys