Watching a son-in-law grow into fatherhood

The first time I met Michael Zinn, he was 19.

Standing at our kitchen stove, he was delightedly preparing an elaborate dinner. He had driven our youngest daughter, Nancy, home from college over a break, and while we were briefly out, the two of them had decided to surprise us with a gourmet meal.

Michael was doing something exotic to a whole fish, and Nancy was there as sous chef.

They were not entirely successful, and the kitchen was a mess, but no matter. Michael knew how to win hearts - Nancy's first, and then ours.

Their friendship was followed by romance, and seven years after that first meeting, there stood Michael under a wedding canopy in our garden. He was almost unrecognizable, not in jeans and T-shirt but in a splendid black tuxedo.

He and Nancy, both 26, recited their wedding vows under a blazing June sun. They were madly in love and ready to take on the world.

The fact that Michael had managed to leave behind the little leather case holding the passports they needed for their honeymoon destination, and had to rush back in the middle of the night to retrieve it, was all part of our new son-in-law's charm.

Back then, Mike seemed like a lovable, overgrown kid to me.

Fast forward two years to the birth of Samuel Ezra Friedman Zinn, the first male in three generations on my side of the family. This was precious cargo indeed.

I winced when Michael was "reckless" with Sam (my view) and "playful" (his). There was no agreeing on how high in the air is too high to toss a 9-month-old baby.

Then along came two more sons, Jonah Benjamin in 1998, and then Daniel Levi in 2002.

"How will they ever handle all this?" I remember saying to my husband.

Sooner or later, I began to notice a subtle difference in our son-in-law, the father.

Michael still seemed boyish, still slightly impish, and perennially lighthearted. But he was more cautious, more apt to set limits, and less playmate than father to his three sons. His authority - and the boundaries he set - were now noticeable. Michael was fun-father, Frisbee initiator, the dad at the swim club most likely to organize games - but with those proverbial eyes in the back of his head.

One day, little Danny, then 6, was in the hospital being tested for Type 1 (juvenile) diabetes.

His brothers were scared, his parents were devastated, and Danny was enjoying the limelight, still too young to understand that this was no picnic.

We rushed up to Montclair and to a hospital room where the vibe was almost partylike. For Danny's sake, his parents were wearing their game faces.

That didn't last.

I watched as my daughter and son-in-law absorbed the news that their red-haired fireplug of a boy had the disease for which there is no known cure. And that life would be very different as a whole family shifted gears.

I looked at Michael's face that day, and I saw something new: anxiety.

This son-in-law, now 45, who once upon a time could zone out the woes of the world in a fierce game of Scrabble or Taboo, has the lines in his forehead that reflect the enormous responsibility of fatherhood.

In Michael's case, it means getting up in the middle of the night to test Danny's blood sugar. It means poring over all the endless and incoming data about diabetes. It means changing the insulin pump infusion site on his son's body every three days, an uncomfortable procedure for Danny. And when the going gets rough, Michael can still get a giggle out of our little warrior grandson.

Michael may seem nonchalant, but when it comes to issues that really matter, he is all focus and intensity. That diabetes supply kit is always at the ready, and it's now instinctive for Michael - known to lose his glasses, his keys, and even his shoes - to be umbilically attached.

Remarkably, Michael is still the guy who will create ingenious scavenger hunts for his three sons to find their birthday presents. He can - and does - organize elaborate neighborhood Ping-Pong tournaments.

It's fine fathering, done without fanfare, and with grace.

I remember a moment recently when all of that came to the fore.

The family had all walked miles in a fund-raiser for Type 1 diabetes. Our feet hurt; we were hungry and exhausted.

But before we scattered, there was Michael, gathering us together to hoist Danny to the top of a human pyramid while chanting his name.

For those few minutes, his son was king of the hill, reveling in the high-jinks.

It was pure Michael.

It was my son-in-law - more like a son now - still his playful, whimsical self.

And all grown up, too.