One of the unexpected graces parenthood affords is the opportunity to observe and encourage the lives of your children, and by so doing, gain a perspective on your own life that can hardly be found any other way.

My wife and I married young, and immediately after the church pews had cooled, we adjourned to Eureka’s Travelodge, where we’re almost certain our first son Gabriel was conceived amid fading industrial carpet, wretchedly patterned comforters, free HBO and those single-serving soap wafers that smell like nothing.

Nine months and some change later, enter the Boy. I had prepared myself for marriage, accommodated my dreams of Bohemian pursuits to include my pretty wife as co-pilot. But the thought of a child, one completely dependent on us for all its needs and comforts, was a long way down the list of exigencies.

In other words, I wasn’t prepared to be a father. I’d basically gone from living with my mother to living with my wife and child. The learning curve was steep.

Suffice it to say, over the last 17 years, we’ve been witness to our firstborn’s coming of age. From the ridiculously swaddled “Baby Burrito,” and acrobatic whirlwind toddler who saw the planes of Sept. 11, 2001 crash into the Twin Towers while whining for his usual Sesame Street; to the tall and awkward 12-year-old who consistently left a stink of hormones in his wake, or the stridently independent high school kid who seemingly never heard advice he didn’t already know.

We’ve seen all these evolutions, and now are pleased to report that he’s become nice again. Arguments have turned back into conversations, as we’ve realized that he is becoming a man, and should be treated as such.

At the same time, Gabriel has also been the sole witness to the full arc of our own development. As much as he’s grown up over the intervening years, so have we. Issues that used to send us spiralling into panic or anxious fit have ceased to rile us. We’ve relaxed a ton, and learned to let kids be kids.

He’s seen us make huge mistakes — especially me — but also own up to them, and recover. He’s also been the primary witness to our most toxic times, some of our most vile arguments, then the hugs and kisses that inevitably followed.

Above all, I hope he’s learned that his parents aren’t perfect, that nobody is, and that he should only strive to do what he loves, and well.

Recently, he cut his hair, and began the slow process of looking for a job. Slightly more than 20 years ago, I embarked on the same journey, anxious for the money to provide entertainment and distraction, aching for the respect a wage somehow provides.

At the time, my beefy and charming Uncle Stan, for years a stalwart employee at the Samoa Pulp Mill, took me aside and laid bare the facts: Once you start working, you get used to a paycheck. You get used to a paycheck, you accumulate bills. You accumulate bills, and you have to keep working. Put simply, if you start work now, you’ll never stop.

Are you sure this is what you want?

I shrugged him off with a quip and a smile, and went on to work 18 straight years, minus a week’s vacation now and again.

During that stint, I made some mistakes, earned some hard-fought victories, and generally learned how to get along. I wouldn’t change any of it.

And though I too want to take my boy aside and say, “Don’t grow up too fast — life is coming for you, one way or the other,” I resist.

His journey will always be his alone. As much as I’d like to jump in the ring with him, wave my flabby arms in the air and slow down the process that will eventually take him away from us, it’s not my place. It wouldn’t be fair.

How we forge identity in this world, for good or bad, is through struggle. By taking on challenges, failing or succeeding, making your mark in a world that could care less, you learn to respect yourself and your own unique capabilities.

So the Boy becomes a Man. He’ll find work, make money, hate his boss, love his coworkers, call in sick, take a much-deserved vacation, and quit when the quitting’s good. Such is life, and his to live.

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James Faulk is a writer living in Eureka. He can be reached at faulk.james@yahoo.com.