I’ll confess something: Sometimes, when I’m barreling along on the highway, I think about what it would be like to jerk the wheel to the left and swerve into oncoming traffic. I tell myself I won’t actually do it and that I can’t be the only one who has that sort of thought.

 

Lately, though, I’ve felt like other drivers are trying to swerve into me, and I don’t like it. I don’t mean real drivers, but expectations as big as 18-wheelers. I’m trying to mind my own business—driving in a straight line and keeping my family safe—and now I have to worry about expectations that have the pedal to the metal and an evil glint in their eyes.

 

It’s an ordinary evening. The highway is clear and smooth, but there are headlights in the distance. I’m checking e-mail in our bedroom. Christine, my wife, looks at me with a sheepish smile. “I have some pictures to show you, OK?”

 

“Okaaay,” I reply, wondering what’s in store for me. Perhaps after regaining her trim figure after Nicholas’ birth, Christine has taken some racy pictures of herself in lingerie. We’ve both been making an effort lately to get back in shape, after all. I’m certain that my always-attractive figure is even more desirable now that I can run for at least 25 minutes without stopping to hurl. Maybe I should take some pictures for her, since

she’s taken these for me.

 

Christine stands beside me as iPhoto loads, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. My fantasy ends abruptly. Instead of Sexy Christine, the screen is filled with the image of my son, Nicholas. Wearing an oh-so-cute turquoise dress. Did I mention that my son is a boy?

 

If I try to ignore temporarily my various hang-ups and insecurities, it’s really quite a charming picture. I’m the first one to wax eloquent about how beautiful Nicholas is, and he’s at the top of his game in this picture. Nicholas is at the age when showing off is one of his main goals. In this instance, as Christine told me, he was able to show off for both Mom and Auntie Lisa and the camera at the same time.

 

There he is, captured mid-twirl. The dress is swirling lightly from his shoulders, rotating back in the direction of his spin. His arms are outstretched, delicately downward, while a giant grin lights up his face. It is the perfect picture of my son in a dress. And I hate it.

 

I like to indulge in some Psych 101–isms every once in a while: “So, you are a young father upset by the sight of your young son in a dress, eh? Clearly you are under

the impression that the way your son dresses and behaves reflects on his masculinity and, therefore, on your own. Perhaps you are afraid that he will grow up to be a bit of a—how shall we put it—a dandy? Young man, are you afraid of being a father? Is this really about your own sexual insecurities? Or your own sexual desires? Perhaps you do not feel like a real man. Your father may have something to do with this, and your mother, too. I want you to think about these things, but don’t rush it. I’m sure we will have many interesting sessions together, you and I.”

 

I’m sure. It’s funny how much credence I give the German-accented fogey in my head, even though I made him up. What’s the big deal about Nicholas wearing a blue dress, anyway? In my head, I know what the answer is: nothing. No big deal. But I see all those questions the dress stirs up—all those insecurities and doubts and fears—as the lights of an oncoming truck. Do I let those questions run me over? What will happen if I swerve? And what ever happened to the simple road of parenting a newborn—eat, change, swaddle, set the cruise control and try to stay awake?

 

It’s not just strange events—like my wife dressing my son up like a girl—that screw with me, either. It’s normal, everyday stuff, like going for a walk with my family. When we stroll around our neighborhood, I usually invite Envy along for company. Envy’s great to bring because he always has something to say about the houses, cars, dogs and various domestic accouterments we pass.

 

He asks me if I realize that owning a house would make me the happiest, most fulfilled man in the world. I usually sigh before agreeing. Why can’t I take a different Deadly Sin with me? Gluttony would be perfect, since I could walk off the weight at the same time I was gaining it. As I near 30, though, I’m beginning to suspect that we don’t get to pick our vices. They pick us, I think, and stick around through thick and thin.

 

And it’s not all happy talk with Envy, either. He can be a real jerk when he brings up the whole emasculating I’m-not-providing-for-my-family thing. We’re young, I tell him, still finding our way through various changes and transitions, and so far we haven’t lacked anything that matters. He tells me to stuff the hippie talk and start being a man. Get on the path to success, he says—don’t your wife and kid deserve the best? Name one of your friends, he demands, who’s less of a man than you are! When we get home from our walk, I’m going to make a serious effort to look up Gluttony’s number and invite him along next time.

 

I read enough to know that, according to almost everyone—economists, philosophers, preachers, sociologists, and so on—having more stuff doesn’t mean that I’ll be happier or more of a man or a better dad. The trouble is that the people who think that more is always better have a really big megaphone and they’re not afraid to use it. If I want to be a better dad, why should I work harder on my relationships with my family or practice self-examination or join a woodworking class when I can just buy Nicholas a new train set online? As much as I hate to admit it, I get run over by this lie all the time; I’m so used to being flattened that I can hardly remember what it’s like to stand up straight.

 

What scares me is the notion that I might pass this handicap on to Nicholas, or that it’s being inextricably woven into him from day one, like a rough, brown thread through a delicate white cloth. Christine and I have a favorite store slogan, one we learned while we

were deciding where to register for Nicholas’s baby shower. Babies “R” Us (thankfully my computer doesn’t know how to participate in the inane reversing of the “R”) offers its customers the following pearl of wisdom regarding babies: “For being so little, they sure need a lot.”

 

What’s the best gift that I can give Nicholas? Given my current career, it doesn’t look like handing him a pile of material riches will be an option, tempting though it is to think of wealth as the universal problem-solver.

 

But if not wealth, then what? I think I can already guess at the answer. If there’s one thing I know, it’s this: Even though I’m just a rookie now, I’ll be Nicholas’s dad for the rest of his life. Neither of us will get pulled from the game. I’m the starting dad for Team Jacobsen, and God willing, we’ve got a long season ahead of us.

 

So Nicholas, the next time Envy comes on our family walk, I promise to stick my fingers in my ears and hum; maybe he’ll shut his cake hole for once. I promise that I’ll do my best to make sure that you always have enough, whatever enough looks like for our family; we’ll have to discover it as we go. When you’re older, it might mean that you’ll ask me to give a pair of my running shoes to a homeless guy who hangs out by your school, since yours won’t fit him; maybe you’ll decide that planting a new garden is the birthday present you really want. Maybe it means that I’ll buy you a battery-powered Escalade for you to drive around in on your third birthday, but boy-oh-boy, do I hope not! No matter what shape our love takes, Son, I promise you this: as the season goes by, we’ll work on our game together.

 

Taken from Rookie Dad by David Jacobsen, copyright 2008. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. No part of this original publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the publisher. To order the book, click here.