Dylan Stafford

My wife’s grandfather lived to be 94. Alphonse was 90 at our wedding, in his 69th glorious year of marriage to Helen, his wife. She passed away the week after we got home from our honeymoon; politely waiting for her granddaughter to get back.

When asked the secret to parenting, and living in general, Alphonse said, “Trial and error. Mostly error.”

Our younger son Christian turned two this month. On the actual day of his birthday, I needed to stay at work late for a dress rehearsal for the student talent show; I was a mock-Jedi-turned-stoner in a skit (a perk of working at a university).

Normally, I take Christian home from daycare, but to help me out, my wife adjusted her schedule and picked him up from UCLA so that I could attend the dress rehearsal. We met at the parking lot of a McDonald’s on Pico, about half-way home, and did a toddler-exchange. Now empty-handed, I got a fish sandwich, fries and a Diet Coke and went back to school.

The student in charge of the dress rehearsal knew it was my son’s birthday and graciously allowed our skit to rehearse first. Much sooner than I anticipated, I was done and heading home. It was only 6:45.

[Here’s the actual talent show; if you’re really bored you can forward to 47:00 for some fine, fine acting. I’m wearing the Jamaican beanie.]

Anderson’s Got Talent – 2014 UCLA Anderson Talent Show, full edit from UCLA Anderson on Vimeo.

As I got into the car, my phone rang. It was a blocked number, but I answered anyway.

“Hi Dylan, this is Victoria.” Victoria is our retired neighbor across the street who is always helping us out. “Marisa asked me to call you to see how long until you are home.”

“I’m actually just getting in the car. I’ll probably be home in about 30 minutes with traffic.”

“OK. Well apparently, what has happened is that Christian has locked himself in the house, and Marisa and Jackson are outside. Christian’s OK, but he’s inside crying. Marisa is sitting at the door, talking to him through the door. They were bringing in groceries and she’d set her purse down, and Christian took it upon himself to close the door and locked her outside. Normally, I have an extra key but with all the renovation, I gave it back to you all to give to the contractor,” Victoria said.

“Crap–and I bet the garage is locked too, because of the contractor’s tools,” I said. “There’s a spare in the garage somewhere but you can’t get to it.” [We are at the end of a renovation.]

“Marisa will be glad you’re on the way; I’ll let her know 30 minutes. Drive safely and get home as soon as you can,” she said.

During the first year of Christian’s life, we were “fost-adopt” parents, meaning we were technically his foster parents, and if all went well, we were on the trajectory to adopt him and be his forever parents. During that whole year, I was always superstitiously afraid of something like this, a whoops-a-daisy that would trigger some catastrophic change.

“Sorry there Mr. Stafford, but upon further review, you’re not qualified to parent this young lad. Sorry.” That was how my nightmare always went.

That never happened and Christian is 100% our boy now. But, driving home on his birthday, knowing he was locked inside and crying, I felt very unqualified. With two fail-safes we’d still managed to lock ourselves out, and our baby in. Great planning Dad.

I got home and carefully pulled up. No emotions. Just park the car. I walked up to the door where Marisa was seated, leaning against the door. Big brother Jackson was playing handball against the garage, oblivious. I put the key in, entered, and bent to pick up our little blond bear.

“Christian Christian Christian… Everything is OK. Todo esta bien,” I said, hugging him and looking him over and wiping his tears, with Marisa doing the same. “Everything is OK. Tshh tshh tshh. Todo esta bien,” I continued, using all the calming noises I know and rocking him and holding him snug against me.

He was fine. After a few minutes it was as if nothing had happened. He locked himself inside when Marisa went back for several bags of groceries, including a Carvel ice cream birthday cake. It was soft from sitting outside waiting to be brought in, but it survived. We all ate dinner together. We gave Christian a small piece of birthday cake. We sang happy birthday to him and he loved it.

The following Sunday, we were running late to church and by the time we got to Santa Monica, I figured we were probably going to miss the sermon.

“Why don’t you get out and go in with Jackson. I’ll find a spot and catch up with Christian,” I said to Marisa as I pulled into the 5 minute spot out front. She got out with Jackson and headed into the sanctuary.

I started to circle the block to find the entrance to the underground parking garage but found an open street spot; there are almost never any street spots. The cars in front and behind had parked awkwardly, each over a foot from the curb. The spot was just long enough for me to squeeze in my car, with a lot of scooch-turn-scooch-turn, back and forth. After several minutes I got out and went around to get Christian from his car seat.

I was well over a foot from the curb myself, really a poor parking job. “Am I going to get a ticket?” I wondered. I got a ticket a block away a few years ago. My bumper had been into a red zone by less than a foot, but they’d ticketed me nonetheless.

I was all-the-way cranky now, very un-spiritual. “Why am I even here? I’ve probably missed the sermon. Should I go re-park in the garage? That will take another ten minutes at least. I hate Santa Monica.” All these lovely thoughts were going through my mind as Christian held my hand and we walked away from the car down the sidewalk.

I decided to risk the ticket and at least hear the end of the service.

The day was bright and beautiful despite my foul mood. When Christian and I came in the back of the church, my eyes were barely able to see as they adjusted to the dark of the sanctuary. We were walking across the back of the church, in the row behind the last pew. I was looking for Marisa and Jackson, squinting to find them with my sunshine-impaired eyes.

Maybe Christian’s eyes needed to adjust too. Maybe, in spite of being locked in a house on his birthday, he still trusted his daddy implicitly and knew his daddy would never lead him in harm’s way. Poor child.

Christian was walking on my left, his right hand reaching up and holding my last two fingers. My position was all wrong. I should have been further to the right, hugging the back wall, to make space for Christian and I to walk side-by-side in the back aisle.

Instead, I was walking right in the middle, distracted, looking for Marisa. Christian must have been looking who-knows-where, because there was a sharp knock, like something solid hitting wood, followed instantly by a shrieking cry coming up from my poor Christian.

The something solid was Christian’s forehead. In my half-blind, annoyed haste, I had walked Christian forehead-first right into the pew and he was screaming about it. I swooped him up into my arms and we vacated out the back through the always-open sanctuary doors, back outside into the beautiful morning, warmed by the stares of people on my back, people wondering if they’d ever seen a more inept father.

“Oh Christian. Oh Christian. It’s OK. Todo esta bien. Todo esta bien.” I rocked and swayed and took it like a man as he screamed, loudly, right at me. I’d scream too, if my father was as big an idiot as I felt at that moment.

He calmed down after a while, longer that it took on his birthday. We made it inside, carefully and quietly, and found Marisa and Jackson. We had missed the sermon. But she told me later it was about Lent, the season. The root of the word is from “Lente” meaning “slow” like in music, to play slowly.

Trial and error, mostly error. That was the life advice from Marisa’s grandfather. He lived to 94. 50 whole years from where I am now. Maybe I can slow down and get there myself.