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‘Wisdom of Our Fathers’
People often say that having a child changes your life, and of course they’re right, but it’s hard to understand what that really means until it happens to you. In my pre-father years, I was driven, a man in a hurry. I was the first member of my family to attend college, and from there I went on to law school. I served as counsel to New York senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, which led, eventually, to a similar position in the governor’s office in Albany, which was followed by an executive job at NBC. Now I was living in Manhattan, enjoying a fast-paced life that revolved around my career. Fatherhood was the farthest thing from my mind. When I saw someone bring an infant on an airplane and stuff all that baby equipment into the overhead bin, I regarded it as an inconvenience. I would look at my watch and think, Come on, let’s get this plane in the air.
But when Luke was born, I suddenly understood the meaning of unconditional love. I knew exactly why my father had worked two full-time jobs for thirty years and why, when I was a boy, my mother had spent her days sitting next to me when I was sick, putting her hand on my forehead to measure my fever and placing warm tea bags on my eyes to soothe the pain. My love for Luke was natural, complete, and instinctive.
Suddenly there were no more spontaneous happy hours after work, no more late-night movies, and you couldn’t have paid me to attend a dinner party. My career became secondary to the blessing of being a father. I liked that—loved it, actually. I wanted to stay home to feed our baby. I wanted to watch him learn to crawl and say his first words. I wanted to coach his baseball and soccer games. I sometimes feel as if I can remember every day of my son’s life.
Of course, there have been some painful moments along the way. Not long ago, when I took Luke to Boston to begin his freshman year of college, I knew as the door to his dorm room closed that a major chapter in his life—and mine too—had just come to an end. He would never again be totally dependent on me. (Actually, that had been true for years, but as long as he lived at home while in high school, I could still pretend otherwise.) Before I drove off, I gave him some simple advice: “Study hard. Laugh often. Keep your honor.” I hope I’ve taught him to make good decisions and that I’ve given him a strong moral foundation to do the right thing. When my life is over, I know that the most important thing I’ll be judged on is what kind of father I was.
I had hoped my book would connect with readers, but I certainly didn’t anticipate how it might affect members of my own family, including the man whose name is in the title. Luke, Maureen, and I always go to Buffalo for Thanksgiving, and in 2004, a few months after the book came out, we were loading up the car to drive to the airport when Big Russ came over to me to say good-bye. For as long as I can remember, Dad and I had always parted with a handshake and a half hug. But this time he gave me a huge bear hug and said softly, “I love you”—something I had never heard him say before. I was fifty-four years old, and all I could think was, Boy, I wish I had written this book thirty years earlier!
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