Ronald Reagan was well known for his keen insights on many important and complex subjects. Parenting was not one of them.
That’s not a knock on him by any means — he raised four very impressive and successful children, two daughters and two sons. Nonetheless, the subjects with which his wisdom was most associated, and on which his advice was most often sought, were along the lines of how to deal with the Soviet Union, how to stimulate a stagnant economy, how to repair a neglected military, and how to restore a sense of pride and optimism in our country, not raising kids.
Yet in the more than 10 years I had the privilege to work directly for Ronald Reagan, one of my most vivid and valued memories is something he said about fatherhood. Specifically, he told me one of the greatest joys of having a daughter was “getting to see your wife grow up all over again.” I had no idea what he meant until ours was born. He was right. Seeing my wife and our daughter bond over selecting clothes, the pain of having ears pierced, admiring handsome men on TV and in movies, experiencing the transformation from girl to woman, and expressing outrage at anything that seeks to diminish women, among many other things, has been truly joyful.
That said, Reagan did not offer detailed guidance on fatherhood. For me, it came in stages. It started with the over-the-moon “I cannot believe I will be a dad” period that lasted from my wife’s positive pregnancy test until I changed the first diaper. At that point, it became a combination of “What have I gotten myself into?” and “I [think/hope/pray] I can handle this.”
The next, and for me most defining stage, was being what some called a helicopter. There are those who think that implies doing things incorrectly. Not me. I wore the label proudly, sometimes telling people “just call me Marine One.”
I unabashedly lived and still live by the “nothing bad will happen on my watch” motto every minute of every day. How safe is too safe when it comes to our kids? What could be worse than being lax, having something horrible happen, and spending the rest of your life wishing you had been more vigilant? When it comes to a child’s well-being, parents do not get second chances. No possibility seemed too remote.
Here’s an example: Once, when my wife and I took our newborn daughter to her pediatrician for a “routine well visit” (as if there really is such a thing), I posed a lot of questions. The one that may have put things over the top had to do with the fact our infant daughter did not cry when she received injections. I asked the doctor if that signaled a neurological deficiency, for which a work-up by a pediatric neurologist might be in order.
At that the pediatrician, a highly experienced and well-regarded Manhattan doctor, turned to me, grinned, sighed, and said: “No, but I have to say, Mr. Weinberg, I’ve never had a father quite like you.” I beamed, thanked her, and then asked what she meant. Her reply: “Well, sir, I mean I have never had a father quite as involved as you.” I beamed even brighter. My wife scowled. When we got into the taxi to take us back to our apartment, I turned to my wife and proudly said the pediatrician called me the best father she had ever seen. My wife tartly replied that was not what the doctor had said or meant. I did not agree then and do not now.
To me, at least, there was no such thing as being too involved. Too involved with what? In my own defense, I did not engage in what some might consider ridiculous actions. I did not follow the school bus on field trips, nor did I hide behind bushes when our little girl was on the playground. (I considered both, but was threatened within an inch of my life by you-know-who.) No, I restricted myself to the more traditional techniques of doing all carpools to and from, donning tiaras and nail polish at birthday parties (don’t ask), volunteering for every classroom party, and being an ever-present chaperone.
Fast forward from the younger years to now, when our daughter, as a direct result of my oversight, is a happy and healthy junior in high school, which is ground zero for the college selection process, driving lessons, and prom (kill me now). Because she did very well on the standardized admission test (she took it all by herself), has good grades, is captain of one of the debate teams, is a varsity soccer player, president of a school club, and was selected for a highly competitive peer-advisory group, I have been pushing her toward prestigious colleges with prominent names. She and my wife think part of the reason for that is because I went to a good (but by no means celebrated) college and want bragging rights. Yeah, so?
Apparently, that moves me to the next stage — from being a helicopter to being a projector, seeking for our daughter what I did not achieve at a similar point in life. I view that as progressing, even graduating, from being a helicopter. My wife and daughter do not share my view. The word “vicarious” comes up often at the dinner table these days. I think that’s an exaggeration, but even if it is, is it really so wrong?
My daughter has made it clear that while my opinion will be “taken into consideration” (which I suspect means ignored), the college decision will be made on the basis of where she feels most comfortable, has the academic program she wants, and is within driving distance of our home (That’s the one thing on which we all agree. For now).
My wife and I reluctantly accept that our daughter is growing up, will soon be an adult, and out of our home (maybe). Our younger child, a preteen boy still in middle school, is giddy with anticipation. One day, we were discussing colleges to which his sister might apply. With barely concealed glee and a look that reminded me of a lion licking his chops after spotting vulnerable prey, he asked: “When is she leaving?” I felt like a bullet pierced my heart. “Leaving?,” I stammered. “She just got here!”
And then it hit me. What I was really upset about was how quickly time is passing. Sometimes I still think of her as that gorgeous infant, who, wrapped like a burrito, slept on my chest after her 3 a.m. feeding every day for months. I miss those days a lot, and cannot believe she will soon leave our nest to start a life of her own. I am told that is the natural progression of things, but it seems to be happening way too fast.
Lately, I find myself almost overwhelmed with sadness at the prospect of not being able to kiss our daughter goodnight every night. I miss her already, even though she’s still here. Yet I am also very excited about what lies ahead for her, and have no doubt she will be an amazing adult.
So far in this journey I’ve been over the moon, scared, hopeful, a helicopter, and a projector. What I will be in the next stage is anybody’s guess. I wish the Gipper had given me a clue.
Mark Weinberg, a communications consultant and executive speechwriter, served on the White House staff as special assistant to the president and assistant press secretary to President Ronald Reagan,. He is the author of Movie Nights with the Reagans (Simon & Schuster). He and his wife have two children, whom they are raising in the New York City area.
