Hi, Pirate! No comments yet
like the TV, I
change at his whim: horse, giant,
pirate, and dragon.
Five Weird Habits of Highly Weird Kids No comments yet
Busy Mom wasn’t specific in her tagging, so I’m taking this opportunity to jump on the dogpile. However, as I’ve a strict rule limiting how I write about myself on this site, this list is dedicated to the five weird habits of my highly weird son:
- His hands must be clean. Always. If Ian falls, his first concern isn’t scrapes or cuts, it’s how much dirt is on his hands. If he gets food on his hands while eating, he’ll wave them in our direction, fingers splayed, until we wipe them clean.
- If Ian doesn’t know the words of a song, he’ll lip sync. He opens and closes his mouth in time with the words, and bobs his head back and forth.
Milli VanilliBritney Spears has nothing on this kid. - He greets everyone. Anyone. When we open his bedroom door in the morning, we’re met with an enthusiastic, ‘Hi!’ At the mall on Sunday, we got out of our car at the same time as a couple in the space next to us. As soon as I opened Ian’s door, he looked right at the woman and said, ‘Hi!’ You’d be surprised at how few people return the greeting.
- He is manipulative. Lately, when Ian’s in trouble and looking at the business end of a ‘talk’, he’ll cheerfully say, ‘Okay, bye!’ just to avoid his discipline. We used to think it was acquiescence, now we know he just wants us to go away.
- Ian loves to dance. If there’s music – any music, anywhere – he’ll dance to it. Actually, music is optional. A few weeks ago, we gave Ian $1 to spend at a craft store. He bought a large, plasitc candy cane, and proceeded to do the Old Soft Shoe across the parking lot.
Okay, Daddies, let’s hear it. What are the five weird habits of your highly weird children? If you can’t think of any, keep looking – how else are you going to embarrass them when they’re 16?
The Twelve Days of Christmas: Day 1 No comments yet
This year, Ian’s great-grandmother sent him a package with twelve gifts, to be opened one per night until Christmas. Ian doesn’t see the point of hanging ornaments on the tree. How would you play with them?
And So This Is Christmas No comments yet
This past weekend we took Ian to the Way of Lights at Our Lady of the Snows. It took an hour of waiting in mile-long traffic, but thankfully the mini-van in front of us had a late showing of The Incredibles. Plus, I don’t know that Ian really knew or cared about the difference between Christmas lights and headlights.
The weekend before, Ian had sat on my lap (in the back) while we drove (ever so carefully) between the Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club parking lots. He loved it. Who wouldn’t prefer sitting on a father’s lap after being strapped to a carseat for two years? We told Ian that he could sit on Daddy’s lap again when we went to see Christmas lights, and any time he saw anything resembling a Christmas light he would ask, ‘Daddy’s lap?’
We finally reached the entrance to the Way of Lights, and my agility in unbuckling Ian from his seat was matched only by his speed in leaving it. He settled himself in my lap, and suddenly I remembered the year before: my face nuzzled against his head, Ian’s eyes opened wide and watching the lights with enough enthusiasm for both of us. Which was good, because I kept forgetting about the displays.
That night, Ian only had eyes for Bethlehem. He kept pointing at the city, its bright, yellow walls and turqoise-domed roofs shining through the trees. There was no sign of Wayne Newton. ‘Beth…le…hem! Beth…le…hem!’
And so this is Christmas. My son, my lap, driving slowly through the Gospel in fifty words or less, holding hands with my wife.
Just the Check, Please No comments yet
When meeting someone for the first time, social custom generally dictates that we cover the basics: name, job, occupation. This sparse exchange goes just far enough for an embarrassed silence, and so we scramble to find common ground. At the very least, we try to justify our presence. ‘I’m a friend of…’, ‘My cousin is…’, ‘The door was open.’ If you’re Dutch, you play bingo.
For the younger crowd, we often try to discover each other’s respective progress in the Game of Life. Are you single? Married? How many blue pegs? How many pink? The gamut of questions is predictable, and exhausting. Are you seeing anyone? Are you engaged? When are you getting married? When are you going to have children? When are you going to have more children?
Kelly and I are stuck in this last phase, and we can’t seem to move on.
We married young, and had Ian during our third year. This was just a bit earlier than we would’ve liked, but we wanted our youth to counter any potential genetic problems caused by the ravages of time. Of course, no one noticed. At the time we were living in a community where people gave birth young, and often; these are people who shouldn’t hang their clothes in the same closet. Ian had barely opened his eyes before people started asking, ‘So, when’s the next one?’
Next what? Bus? Star Wars sequel? Oh, child! ‘Well, we only plan to have the one.’ Crickets chirp. A tumbleweed rolls across the plain. In the distance, a lonely dog barks. When you tell someone your name, they generally don’t care why your parents named you ‘Moon Unit‘. But if you tell someone you’re only going to have one child, you’d better have a reason. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find one that works.
Kelly is an only-child. My sister and I are seven years apart, and, to some extent, grew up as only children. Of course, it’s hard to bond with a sister when you’re tethered to a Nintendo. My other brother and sister live[d] in another state, so our family dynamic wasn’t exactly typical.
Kelly’s a Christian school teacher, I was an English major who minored in poetry. I prefer to pay my bills, and the more children we have, the more likely it is we’ll be reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting by candlelight. We enjoy the thought of being able to send Ian to Christian schools, and college, and, when he’s older, I plan to share a pint of Guiness with my son while our family travels through Wales.
Of course, money and time aren’t the real issues. In the end, we just don’t feel the desire to have more children. We’re happy, Ian’s happy. Yay! We realize that God has a plan (and a great sense of humor), so another child isn’t out of the question. But, until further notice, the only son I’ll be writing about is Ian.
Really, I don’t mind being asked if we’re going to have more children. It’s the judgement that so often follows, as if we’re insane, or as if having an only-child is irresponsible. But how responsible is having another child so that Ian ‘will have a brother to play with’, or because ‘they’re so much fun’? Are people honestly asking us to have children we don’t want, and who they don’t have to raise?
Bill Cosby once said that people with only one child aren’t really parents. When something breaks, there’s only one suspect. I used to laugh at that, until I realized that having a suspect doesn’t guarantee a confession.
Mirror, Mirror No comments yet
I hand the bag of rainbow-colored Goldfish to Ian. He smiles, says ‘thank you’, and dumps the crackers into a pile. He looks at the fish, frowns, puts his chin in his hands, and says, ‘Let’s see…’
Ian, do you want PB&J or grillled-cheese? He tilts his head, looks into the distance. ‘Ummmm….’
Today, we see a pickup truck make a right turn from the left lane. Horn blaring, he cuts across a Honda and swerves to avoid a hatchback. ‘Maybe it’s an emergency,’ says my mother-in-law. Following the truck’s progress from the rear window, I say, ‘Maybe he’s a schmuck.’
Ian turns toward me, eyes wide, and says, ‘Smuck!’
Whoops.
Daddyku 1 comment
Fergus has started posting Daddy haiku, which is just a neat idea. So many experiences are too subtle for words, and, if you must describe them, it’s best to use as few words as possible. This is certainly the case with being a dad.
Haiku is my favorite form of poetry. I’m terrible at writing traditional haiku, but I’m good with syllables, and can easily count to seventeen:
Don’t Tell Mommy
you and your mother
are often alone; but, son,
we need secrets, too.
I invite other dads to share their Daddyku! Post them here, or send them to me – I’d love to see more.
The Greater Need 1 comment
On Mother’s Day, 2005, Jeff Novak and his wife, Jackie, watched Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, kissed each other goodnight, and said, ‘I love you.’ An hour later, Jeff brought their newborn daughter to bed, and found that Jackie had passed away at the age of 28. In one moment, Jeff became a single-father of three daughters.
This past Sunday’s episode of Extreme Makeover was dedicated to helping Jeff and his girls make a new start. I’ve always thought that ABC should send a pack of tissues to all of us who watch the show, but this episode hit too closely to home.
I’ve thought a lot about death since Ian was born. What can I say? I’m an optimist. I’m paranoid by nature, and when you give something so fragile and significant as a child to a guy like me, you’re going to get quite a few worst-case scenarios. My mind has painted terrifying pictures of Ian, freezing in his room, or being suffocated by blankets. I’ve seen him tumble from my arms into the tiger cage or over a bridge, or slip beneath the water’s surface.
When life becomes this important, there seem to be so many things that can take it away.
But, though the thought of Ian dying may be troubling, it’s the idea of Kelly’s death which makes my heart turn cold. Even before we were married, I couldn’t imagine a life without her. I have learned such courage and strength, such love. I don’t know where I end or she begins; I do not recognize the man (?) I was before Kelly.
As important as Kelly is to my life, I can’t help but feel that she is infinitely more so to Ian’s. Ever since he first turned his face toward mine, I’ve known that the needs of my son far outweigh my own. Well, unless he won’t touch his cheeseburger. Then he’s on his own; that burger’s mine.
In fact, I feel Kelly is so vital to Ian, the thought of my own death doesn’t bother me so much. I don’t like the idea of leaving my family behind, but, somehow, I’m comforted to know that Kelly and Ian will have each other. I am less so at the thought of Kelly’s passing.
Which is odd. Only recently I made a fuss about fathers being no less significant than mothers in the lives of children. Is this simply a bout of machismo, the couragous father nobly sacrificing himself for his family? I don’t think so.
There is a part of me that feels Kelly is better at meeting Ian’s fundamental needs. As a father, I feel as though I’m always learning to care for my son; as a mother, Kelly already seems to know. Not that she hasn’t made mistakes; all parents do. But those mistakes have been in the details, never the bigger picture. Ian’s well-being is ultimately at the heart of how we raise him, but Kelly never seems to forget that, whereas I sometimes often need to be reminded.
Does this mean I think single-fathers are doomed, or less effective parents? Of course not. When I saw the love and tenderness Jeff Novak showed toward his daughters, I knew the girls were in good hands. And there is one Father who will never leave. I just pray, if such a prayer can be, that if my son were to lose a parent, it would be me.
Dr. Kimble, I’m Your Man No comments yet
Kevin’s post reminded me of the one-armed meals I ate when Ian was little[r]. He’d fall asleep in the crook of my arm, and I’d finish the meal with one hand and an aching left arm. Kelly would open my ketchup catsup mustard bottles.
It’s not as touching as it sounds. I don’t know why I didn’t just put Ian in his carrier. Maybe there wasn’t room, or I wanted to let everyone else eat. I highly suspect that I tended to play the martyr (it’s probably my best role), and I certainly remember wondering if I’d ever have a peaceful, comfortable meal again.
Despite my selfish impatience, I like to think that at such times, the father who I would become, am becoming, was speaking to me.
‘Don’t let him go. Soon enough his legs will grow, his back will strengthen, and you will be replaced by a highchair, booster-seat, and nothing at all. In this, you are redundant.
‘Soon, mealtimes for you will mean mealtimes for him, and he will never again be so accommodating.
‘Soon he will fall asleep everywhere but in your arms. Soon you will need both arms to hold him, and even then not for very long. Soon he will not want to be held.’
The point is not that I regret my thoughts or actions (though I do). The point is that I don’t remember being annoyed or impatient or grumpy. I just remember the soft weight of a baby in my arm, breathing softly, and covered in a napkin because Daddy’s a messy eater.
I Know He Doth Protest Too Much 1 comment
The odds are stacked against the house. It’s one of the shortest words, ‘n’ is one of the easiest letters, and we’ve been saying it since Ian started crawling. So should I be suprised when Ian tells me ‘no’?
The answer, invariably, is no.
Actually, this is not a new development. ‘No’ is a very easy to word to say, and, from birth, things happen to us that we don’t like or want. So it’s not surprising that Ian learned to say ‘no’, rather than clamping his mouth shut and being coated in puréed peas.
At first, ‘no’ is simply a statement of preference. ‘Father, I’d really rather not be a part of this.’ But, on the whole, parents don’t much care. We know what’s best, and we understand the consequences of an unchanged diaper or playing with Mama’s pinking shears. Children live in the present, parents live in the future.
But now we’re entering into more sinister territory. Ian has begun to grasp the concept of consequences, and he doesn’t really see the harm in staying upstairs. Because there isn’t any; I simply want my son downstairs, and what Daddy wants isn’t quite cutting it for Ian. ‘Son, I’d really rather you not be a part of this.’ Well, Dad, I don’t much care.
I can see his point. His room is upstairs, and some toys, and sometimes the cats. We have a neat old house with creaking wood floors, strange hallways, and ill-fitting doors. Why should he want to come downstairs when he’s perfectly fine, having fun, and just because Daddy says so? Honestly, being a kid stinks. You can’t do anything! And here’s this guy telling my son – yet again – that Ian has to drop everything, and do what he wants. And Ian is tired of it.
Preference has now become defiance, and all of that frustration and angst is packed into the one word which we both know we both completey understand: no.
And whooo, boy. Does it set me off. Ian narrows his eyes, furrows his brow, and says ‘No!’ in that sharp tone which brooks no discussion. The same tone Kelly and I have used, again and again, with wonderful results. Ian knows full well what this tone is supposed to do.
Ah, but parents are not so easily manipulated.
I fold my arms, look up at my son over the top of my glasses, and in a tone that trumps all others I say, ‘Excuse me?’
Ian pauses, the scowl wiped from his face, and puts his hand on the stair railing. ‘No?’
I say nothing, just look. Ian starts to walk down the stairs, and says, ‘I don’t know!’, as if I’d asked him where he put his shoes, or where Mommy is. He puts an emphasis on ‘know’, as if that’s what he had been saying all along and I’d simply misheard.
I love this job.