Free Familyhood by Paul Reiser Page B

around.”
    Fortunately, I was already seated, because this literally knocked me back. I felt the wind get pushed out of me as I collapsed back in my chair.
    â€œ What?! What are you saying now?” I so wanted to be done with this. My brain and my heart were exhausted.
    Dr. Nutjob gently explained the possibility—it wasn’t a certainty, he was just raising the possibility —that maybe I was the one in need of some healing and it was my son who was registering my pain in his body.
    As opposed to every other whacky possibility raised so far, this one I had to reject. Because this one did not make me feel better; this one pained me. The notion that this infant—already bearing more than his share of challenges and hardships—would also be taking on my problems? That couldn’t be right. The universe wouldn’t do that. And curses upon anyone who would even suggest that.
    WE STOPPED SEEING Dr. Hocus and Mrs. Pocus after that. To this day, I have no idea how much—if any—of what they brought to us was helpful or true.
    I do know that my curiosity did get the better of me, and after they left that night, I started massaging my foot as the doctor had suggested. And I know that within two days, whatever was bothering my son’s stomach went away. The “blockage” seemed to have unblocked. He smiled more and slept better.
    Coincidence? Maybe. Cause and effect? Could be. I have no way of knowing. I’m just telling you what happened.
    And something in me felt different too, after that. I felt lighter . I don’t know what it was, or if there was even a grain of medical explanation for it. I just know that I was cured of something . Maybe it was the evaporation of skepticism. Or the blossoming of some new strand of hope.
    WHATEVER IT WAS, I’ve never let go of the idea that my son and I are connected in ways that defy conventional logic. And that after all is said and done, it’s quite possible it is, in fact, he who has been helping us all along, and not the other way around.
    I don’t necessarily believe everything anyone tells me anymore.
    But when it comes to this boy, I do believe in everything.

It’s Not Just You
    T he President of the United States’ oldest daughter went away to camp last summer. I know this because he shared it with me. Well, not with me personally. He told the whole world, but I was listening. He also mentioned that one of his daughters got a 73 on a science test and the other started wearing braces.
    I was genuinely happy to learn each and every one of these nuggets. For a couple of reasons. First of all, I found it comforting and inspiring that the leader of the free world manages to make time for the minutiae of his children’s day-to-day lives. We don’t elect robots; we elect real people with, hopefully, a sense of all realities facing other real people. And I have to say: a man dealing with his kid’s braces or improving his kid’s science grade sounds pretty grounded to me. Not the type of person likely to go off half-cocked with the levers of power in hand.
    Hearing the President share details about his kids made me feel connected to him—father to father. When he confessed that he was oddly happy about the braces because his daughter was, to his mind, starting to look “too grown-up,” I got it. I know the feeling. “She’s still my baby,” he told the world, even though the girl is five-foot-nine and well on her way to being a fine young woman. I can sympathize; my oldest son, who I used to carry around like a football, is no longer so portable, shaves now, and has taken what I can only describe as a very healthy interest in girls. I could have waited a while for this to be the case, but I get no say in the matter. And neither, I see, does the President of the United States.
    On the other hand, I’m sure the President’s young kids weren’t thrilled to have their