My two sons (ages 3 and 1) have already threatened my position as family patriarch with violence. Am I crazy to be a little afraid?
The first time it happened, it was bath time. My oldest, R, was in the tub and we were playing a little game I had invented. I took a small, plastic dome with a turtle inside (aptly named the “turtle ball”) and spun it like a top on the edge of the tub. “Whoa whoa whoa whoa!” <SPLASH> R cackled with delight. Genius. “I’m totally locked in,” I thought. An engaged dad, delighting my son with wit, intuition, and creativity. We played about 20 more times when I decided to glance at my watch.
I looked up, and the turtle ball was hurtling towards my forehead.
<CRACK!>
It grazed my hair and smashed into the wall behind me. R giggled, satisfied with his show of strength. Lucky for me, like a young Clayton Kershaw, he struggled with control. But was it just me, or did his laugh devolve into a devious, Grinch-like smirk? I swear, he had a look in his eye that said, “I almost had you. Ya know… next time, I’m not gonna miss.”
“We don’t throw toys, R. Those are for the bathtub only, buddy” I scolded, my voice wavering. He did have me. My guard was down. He had a weapon. I had no time to duck or to block the attack. It was the perfect opportunity to take me out. The turtle ball is no joke.
I shook it off. “He’s just playing,” I thought (he was about 2 at the time). Testing his limits. Creative play, right? He doesn’t know the rules of civil society until I teach him. Otherwise, it’s good to have the freedom to explore all possibilities in his environment. Let him push the envelope. There will be time to course correct when he makes mistakes.
A few weeks later, we went to a local Hawaiian restaurant for lunch as a family. R, a voracious eater, was thoroughly enjoying the bounty of rice, kalua pork, and teriyaki sauce in front of him. So much so that, when I decided that he should not have “thirds” of that delicious white rice, he flipped out. Fueled by carbs and sugar, he flailed about in his high chair like an evil octopus. Spam and spit flew everywhere. I had to get him out of there. I approached from behind to whisk him out of the high chair and dash for the exit. As I reached around to unbuckle his seat belt, I saw his kiddie-fork lying within reach on the table.
“I should probably grab that,” I thought. But in an instant, as if he’d read my mind, R swiped the fork and, in one motion, thrust it skyward. His arm stopped inches short of a Walking Dead-style kill-shot through my eye socket. Shaken, I thanked God that I remembered to bring that baby fork to the restaurant. With a full-sized fork, my eyeball’s on a spike, like a decapitated head in Westeros. Dazed, I carried him out. Amidst the cloud of tears and rice kernels, was that a knowing glint in his eye?
“Even closer that time, dad. It’s only a matter of time….” I had to watch my step. The weapons were growing more and more sophisticated….
I survived another several months without incident. R was peaceful and sweet. The threat of violent insurrection faded from my mind. Until one day, when I was unloading the dishwasher. 9-month-old K crawled around me on the kitchen floor. After drying a cup, I turned back for more dishes. There was K, standing with a giant grin on his face. And brandishing a steak knife.
“F%$#!!!”
I don’t cuss much, but the little demon looked like Chucky. It gave me chills (and a reminder to step up the child-proofing). What did R say to you?! Have you joined forces? You’re just a baby, how could you turn against me so soon?! Wait… you can stand? I disarmed him and made a mental note to hand-wash the steak knives from now on. He looked pleased.
Am I making this up? Is it normal to fear your sons? Are they living out some animal instinct to keep the species going? Eliminate the fading rival from the family, and you can ensure he won’t interfere with your rise to dominance.
To be clear, I don’t seriously think that my sons are plotting my violent demise. My instincts in the moment, though, were real and surprising. I felt the urge to defend myself, if just for an instant. My tiny sons prompted the tiniest fight-or-flight response. And they’re only getting bigger, stronger, smarter, and more collaborative. I’m outnumbered! Is this feeling written on the hearts of bro dads, young and old, or am I just paranoid?
Turns out, it’s a thing. Patricide, the most extreme version of the threat I’m feeling, is a common motif throughout history and literature. In classical mythology, I found the story of Cronus (father of Zeus) to be relevant. He found himself on both sides of this conflict, serving as the conniving son to his dad, Uranus, and the paranoid victim of Zeus’s rise. In the Bible, Absalom conspires to overthrow King David. There’s also Oedipus Rex (yikes!). Modern pop culture kept the theme going. Commodus takes out his father, Marcus Aurelius, early in Gladiator. There’s the aforementioned Game of Thrones. There’s Star Wars. Even in the recent, hit series (and Beast Wife favorite) Succession, the father-child power struggle emerges in the corporate world. There must be more, but I just hit my limit on cultural and historical literacy (I really should read more lest these little buttholes threaten my mental dominance too!). Glad I’m not alone. I guess.
In reality, I encourage my sons to rise and be their best selves. Like most parents, I hope they do improve on Bro Dad Model 1.0. I aspire to set a good example and to guide them to become confident, empathetic, and generous men. They are free to test boundaries, challenge the rules, make mistakes, and even play a little too rough with me along the way. I don’t plan to feel threatened beyond that first, split-second impulse. It’s part of their growth and development to bump up against me, and I fully intend to support, not block, their growth (though I will block weapons, punches, and naughty websites).
Recently I was playing on the ground with R, rough-housing a little. At one point, he climbed on top of my chest. And he just started wailing on me, smacking me in the face with both hands. He was like an MMA fighter, and I was the SAHD loser on the ground, waiting for the ref to mercifully end the match. Did I feel that split-second of insecurity? Yep. Did it hurt? Kinda, but not really (he’s 3). Did it hurt my feelings? Nobody saw it happen, so no. No harm, no foul.
“We don’t hit people in the face, buddy. That’s not ok.”
A smirk crept across his face, right beneath his knowing eyes.
I rose to my full height. Towering above him, I declared, “It’s time to go potty.” (He hates that).
Not today, son. Your time will come. But not today.