In my family we can’t get away from the “Y” chromosome. Having children is known as “going to the Y.” I have three sons, no daughters, and my brother, who died last summer, was my sole sibling. My mother had five brothers, no sisters. My father, two brothers, no sisters, etc. Little girls and by extension, women, remain mysteries to me, even more so than they are to most men. I envy my friends with daughters, though I’m not complaining. My sons are healthy, smart, seldom boring, often funny and have never been arrested.
Today is Michael’s
twenty-fifth birthday. He is my middle son, a first lieutenant in the Marine
Corps, a cyber officer stationed at Fort Meade, Maryland. He is a walking balance
of left and right brain. His interests include mathematics, etymology, history,
rock climbing and literature. We can keep up with most of each other’s
conversations. About Michael I have few worries and no regrets. Talking with other
parents, I know how fortunate I am.
Dr. Johnson had no
children of his own but was devoted to his stepdaughter, Lucy Porter, the
daughter of Johnson’s wife, Elizabeth Jervis Porter Johnson (1689-1752), known as
Tetty. Lucy was born in 1715, six years after Johnson, lived in Lichfield with his
mother and served in her shop. She died in 1786, two years after her stepfather.
Johnson had always assumed a fond, fatherly role with Lucy, who became one of
his most frequent correspondents. For this most stoical of men, the death of loved
ones was always shattering. In his 1974 biography of Johnson, John Wain notes
his emotional state after his mother’s death in January 1759:
“His letters to Lucy
Porter are pitiful; he leans on her, begs for her help and comfort, asks that
she shall stay on in the house and let the little business go on as it can, and
is content to leave all the details to her and take her word for everything. ‘You
will forgive me if I am not yet so composed as to give any directions about anything.
But you are wiser and better than I and I shall be pleased with all that you
shall do.’”
Lucy was his close contemporary,
a mature woman, which is not the same as raising a child from birth. The love
is real but less blood-deep. Johnson suggests this in his Rambler essay from
November 13, 1750:
"It may be doubted,
whether the pleasure of seeing children ripening into strength be not
overbalanced by the pain of seeing some fall in the blossom, and others blasted
in their growth; some shaken down by storms, some tainted with cankers, and some
shriveled in the shade; and whether he that extends his care beyond himself
does not multiply his anxieties more than his pleasures, and weary himself to
no purpose, by superintending what he cannot regulate."
Johnson intuitively
understood a parent’s vulnerabilities and limits. Michael has never fallen,
been blasted, shaken, tainted or shriveled. Still, one worries, quietly.