What We Call Courage

by

A.J. Daulerio

illustration by Edith Zimmerman

Since the first minute our first child was in this world, and I held him to my chest, I've been anxious about how to interact with other parents, specifically his classmate's parents. I have avoided uncomfortable run-ins during afternoon pick-ups so far. I can handle 12 seconds of hi-how-are-yas with some of the other dads, but that's about it. Anything beyond that, I start to dance around and look at the sky in search of exotic flocks of birds or wayward parachutists.

So when Meaty got invited to a classmate's 5th birthday party last week, I thought Julieanne would take the hit. She knows my hang-ups about these sorts of things, but she was occupied with the other two children and work, so I had to go. I’ll fully admit I prayed for a small earthquake, or maybe some frightening Santa Ana winds, nothing too destructive but just enough to cancel the party out of "an abundance of caution." I also admit I took a Covid test that morning and prayed for a false positive. No such luck.

I know: why does a child's 5th birthday party cause me so much anxiety? I convinced myself after the minute our oldest, Meaty, was born that parents only want to interact with other parents when they’re loaded. And since I am sober, no one will ever talk to me.

Then there's the added element of my specific insecurity about Los Angeles parents. So I pictured this five-year-old's birthday party would be a mind-bending spectacle, well-attended by tall people with good jawlines and impressive vascularity who were able to handle gallons of booze and probably multiple edibles with ease. There would be a bouncy castle the size of a hot air balloon. A marionette show inspired by Nithya Raman. Alpaca rides. White Claw snow cones for the adults. Steve Aoki would be spinning tunes from "Encanto." And I–I would be sober. No snow cones for me, I'd say. I will tell all the good-looking LA parents I'm driving–now and forever–I'm driving. 

Then my son and the rest of my children and their children's children would all be blackballed until one of them could prove they're able to do a proper keg stand.

I am a sad, ridiculous person for these thoughts, but I assure you I strive to be a kind and fascinating human someday.

*****

Even though he's still four, my son is very self-assured. The first couple of days of school, he had some meltdowns, but he found his way, charmed the teachers, made some friends, and now he loves school and maybe even the spotlight. He wanted to go to this party. I wish he wasn't so well-adjusted, but what am I supposed to do? 

I promised I’d shut down the voices in my head and would go to the party for his sake because, even though I’m a trembling mess, I'm not ready to let him down yet. 

It was a beautiful day, not too hot, and I decided I wouldn't worry about what I wore too much because I thought I'd probably just sweat all over it anyway. Besides, if I wore beat-up jeans and a hat and an old t-shirt, it would look like I was staining the deck or fixing the sprinkler system, some useful and impressive chores. Whatever sort of lie I needed to tell myself to get there was fine. I needed to be there for Meaty. That's it. This isn't about me. Just gonna show up, smile and be as normal-seeming as possible, and try not to shit my pants when someone offers me a piece of birthday cake.

It turned out the party was within walking distance, basically two blocks away. This was an excellent opportunity to meet new neighbors and lay some serious groundwork for future playdates. Still, it could also be terrible because if I had a panic attack and fainted into Steve Aoki's turntable, we'd probably have to move to Wyoming.

When we arrived at the house, I was relieved to see no giant castle or bumping extravagant party. It was a subdued and tasteful event, with purple unicorn balloons tied to the classy wooden fence posts and squealing kids running through the tiny manicured yard.

We got halfway to the backyard entrance, but Meaty stopped. And then he proceeded to hide behind my legs and grab hold of them. I tried to walk us in, but he wouldn't let go. "Just wait, Dad. Please.” Of course, I did. 

We stood outside of the party, and other parents began to notice us lingering with Meaty's panic-stricken head buried between my legs. I kneeled down and smiled at him. "Guess what? I AM SCARED. Probably more than you! So how about this–we're gonna walk in together, and whenever you feel scared, you just run behind my legs, and when I feel scared, I'll do the same."

I could tell by the way he looked up at me that the two of us had stumbled into courage at the same exact moment. 

We made it inside, and–guess what–it was a perfectly normal children's birthday party. There was cake, but we didn't eat it. The kids could ride on a bedraggled pony with a plastic unicorn horn fastened to its head. Wilco on the Sonos. There was a table full of fancy-but not too fancy–arugula-dressed sandwiches. Everyone was happy we had come. 

I mostly hid behind him as I mumbled through hi-how-are-yas with other parents. And, Meaty, God bless him, mingled like he was running for state senate and actually took a ride on that goddamned pony. Man, I was so glad I went. 

We were there for exactly 58 minutes and left stealthily right after the pony got yanked away by an even more bedraggled-looking handler and just before the pink unicorn piñata got whacked. It wasn’t a full, rude Irish goodbye. The birthday girl got a hug from Meaty and I said a polite thank you and promised we’d set up a playdate soon.

Yeah, we bailed early, but I walked home feeling victorious. I deeply exhaled on the walk back and looked at the dozens of cotton-ball clouds chilling in the LA sky. No birds. No parachutes.

"We did great! he said.

“Yeah! We did!"

I realized a wonderful moment was happening, so I asked him to walk slower.

On the way back home we saw the poor pony being spun around by the handler and about to be loaded into a smelly trailer off to either another party or, hopefully, some well-maintained stable with a fresh barrel of water and bottomless piles of hay.

”Can we pet him?" Meaty said. "No, man. Let's leave that pony alone. He's had a long day."