Baby Happy apologizes for his lack of aplomb, and discovers that intimidation doesn’t work from inside a stroller:
‘It’s not that being born caught me by surprise – I simply did not expect it to be quite like that. I understand more now, and were I to have the same experience again, I believe I could control my words.’
I spread my arms, wide, and roar. Ian scrunches his shoulders and giggles, ‘No, dragon!’ He takes my hand and pulls me toward the jungle-gym.
He pushes me up the stairs, to the top of the slides. ‘That slide, dragon. Go! Go! Go, dragon!’ Ian sits on the slide next to mine, and grunts as he tries to shove me. I grin, and we both slide, side-by-side. My feet catch me at the bottom, Ian’s weight carries him over the edge, and he lands in a pile of laughs. He stands, trips, stands to his feet. ‘Again, dragon! Again!’
Later, Ian sits in the woodchips covering the playground, takes a handful, and pretends to eat. He grabs another handful and turns toward me. ‘Dragon food! Eat! Food, dragon!’ Well, something has to keep my fire going.
Ian isn’t satisfied with our little picnic, so he moves us to the gazebo where he loads the park-bench ‘tables’ with sticks, leaves, and an ever-fresh supply of woodchips. I have no idea what he sees, but it looks delicious.
Ian tells me that he’s going to get a soda. ‘Wait here,’ he tells me. He walks three feet, turns, and says, ‘Stay there,’ this time with the added emphasis of a waggling finger. Chagrined, I say, ‘Okay, okay,’ and am delighted when Ian hands me a stickfull of coffee.
I remember having an imagination. I remember riding my bicycle around an abandonded schoolyard, chasing secret agents and knights…or running from them. I remember the sense of urgency I felt when my friends and I built a fort of new-fallen snow, our hands shaking, not with cold, but with fright. ‘Hurry, hurry! They’re almost here!’ There was always an army of fanged and hairy somethings just on the horizon.
But now I’m quite sure that I don’t know any secret agents, and the only fanged creature I’ve seen lately is our cat, Neville, who’s afraid of his own tail. Ian offers me a cup of steaming coffee, and I receive a handful of wood and dirt.
When did I learn that I was pretending? How can I forget?
By: Gary Snyder, Axe Handles
How intelligent he looks!
on his back
both feet caught in my one hand
his glance set sideways,
on a giant poster of Geronimo
with a Sharp’s repeating rifle by his knee.
I open, wipe, he doesn’t even notice
nor do I.
Baby legs and knees
toes like little peas
little wrinkles, good-to-eat,
eyes bright, shiny ears
chest swelling drawing air,
No trouble, friend,
you and me and Geronimo
are men.
It has been too long, and that’s always my problem. Anyone who knows me also knows that I have the best of intentions, but a thimble-full of ambition. I make a lot of plans, but see very few of them to the end. Thankfully this has never translated to my work, and I didn’t mind it so much when I was single, isolated, and, of course, without a son. But now it’s really starting to bother me. The plans I make no longer affect only myself, and when I drop the ball, it lands on more than my own two feet.
If you’ll look at my archives, I’ve written about 60 posts since Ian was born. Over two years ago. Before Ian was born, I started writing to him in a journal. This journal now sits at the bottom of a bookcase, with two or three entries. The amount of effort I’ve put into writing about my son is woefully disproportionate to how important Ian is in my life.
But so what? This is only one of millions of Web sites out there, and it’s certainly not the best. Ian’s life does not depend upon what I do here, and I don’t see how anything I say here will significantly affect his life. But if I can’t commit to the simple task of writing about my son, for my son, then what chance does Ian’s childhood have? I’m concerned, folks. Fatherhood is one ball I don’t want to drop.
You know that Harry Chapin song, ‘Cat’s in the Cradle‘? That song is my greatest fear. I don’t want to look back on my son’s life and remember all the things I’d planned to do. I certainly don’t want him to write a song about it.
Every journey begins with a single step, as they (unfortunately) say, but considering my track record, I can’t do this alone – I’m asking for help. I’m going to do the best I can to write as often as I can, but whenever I start to lose focus, will you let me know? Whether it’s a week or a day, if you feel as though you haven’t heard from me enough, drop me a note at harrychapin@gilbertsrus.com, and kick me in the pants.
In the meantime, here’s what I’ve made you miss in the past month:
The next day, we relived the experience by dressing him up again and having him Trick-Or-Treat at the kitchen door. Ian knocked on the door frame, and was dancing on his toes at the sight of the bowl of candy Kelly was holding. I asked him, ‘Hey, what are you supposed to say?’ He knocked again and yelled, ‘CANDY!’
