Big Family, Small Family
When I first started dating my husband, I didn't know that his father had passed away when J was only eleven. My aunt lived next door to J's economics teacher at the time. The teacher made some comment to my aunt about J not having a father, and my aunt asked me about it. I didn't know the answer. It was early in our relationship, so I was too shy to ask J about his family. Instead, I asked one of his friends if J's father was alive. The friend thought he was. Therefore, I assumed the economics teacher was mistaken.
A few weeks later, the paper wrote a story about J. He told me the story might mention that his father was deceased. He didn't offer me any more details, and I didn't ask him to elaborate. I was surprised, however, that his friend hadn't known that J's father was no longer alive. Why didn't J talk about it?
I don't remember the exact timeline, but I believe several months passed before J finally told me how his father had died. His father was sick all of J's childhood. J had very limited memories of his father and could only recall two specific positive interactions with him. While he was telling me the story of the time his father took him for hot chocolate and gave him a toy motorcycle, my husband broke down in tears. It was possibly the first time I had seen him cry. Outside of his family, I was definitely the first person with whom he shared this story.
In fact, to everyone else, my husband is very stoic about his family history. When asked how his father's death impacted him, J will say that it didn't affect him because he never had much of a father in the first place. It did change him, though, in ways he might not acknowledge.
J felt like he didn't have a real relationship with his dad, and because his dad was so sick, he was not around the family much. Sometimes, the interactions they did have were not very good. I think the lack of a strong father presence leads J to want to be present for his children as much as possible; he wants to be the dad he never got to have. One consequence of that desire is a nervousness about the prospect of having a large family. J is afraid he will have to divide his attention between many children, and one or all of them will feel left out.
People don't tend to ask me if I want to have more children, but if they do, I respectfully answer that it isn't up to me. (I emphasize, at this point, that we speak in terms of "hoping" or "not hoping" for more children, since God makes the ultimate decision.) I am conscious of my husband's fears, even if he downplays them. It is my job to shelter him when I am able, just as he sometimes shoulders burdens for me. Our kids are a joyful part of our lives, and we may someday be blessed with more. I can't fault my husband for feeling as he does after everything he has experienced, though. If our family is complete as it is, I am grateful for what I already have.
A few weeks later, the paper wrote a story about J. He told me the story might mention that his father was deceased. He didn't offer me any more details, and I didn't ask him to elaborate. I was surprised, however, that his friend hadn't known that J's father was no longer alive. Why didn't J talk about it?
I don't remember the exact timeline, but I believe several months passed before J finally told me how his father had died. His father was sick all of J's childhood. J had very limited memories of his father and could only recall two specific positive interactions with him. While he was telling me the story of the time his father took him for hot chocolate and gave him a toy motorcycle, my husband broke down in tears. It was possibly the first time I had seen him cry. Outside of his family, I was definitely the first person with whom he shared this story.
In fact, to everyone else, my husband is very stoic about his family history. When asked how his father's death impacted him, J will say that it didn't affect him because he never had much of a father in the first place. It did change him, though, in ways he might not acknowledge.
J felt like he didn't have a real relationship with his dad, and because his dad was so sick, he was not around the family much. Sometimes, the interactions they did have were not very good. I think the lack of a strong father presence leads J to want to be present for his children as much as possible; he wants to be the dad he never got to have. One consequence of that desire is a nervousness about the prospect of having a large family. J is afraid he will have to divide his attention between many children, and one or all of them will feel left out.
People don't tend to ask me if I want to have more children, but if they do, I respectfully answer that it isn't up to me. (I emphasize, at this point, that we speak in terms of "hoping" or "not hoping" for more children, since God makes the ultimate decision.) I am conscious of my husband's fears, even if he downplays them. It is my job to shelter him when I am able, just as he sometimes shoulders burdens for me. Our kids are a joyful part of our lives, and we may someday be blessed with more. I can't fault my husband for feeling as he does after everything he has experienced, though. If our family is complete as it is, I am grateful for what I already have.
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