Cobwebs brush my face as I step into the wooden hut, and I notice that the corners are masses of spiderwebs. I hear a noise behind me, and turn to see that Ian has tripped and fallen to his hands. I smile because he is, and laughing.
I lunge toward him when I see the spider jump from the ground to his chest, and frantically swipe it to the ground before it can crawl onto Ian’s face. I’m flooded with relief, and put my arms around my son.
But I was too late, too slow. Ian’s face is flushed, heat coming in waves from his skin, and he’s not breathing. Terrified, I reach for my cell phone. In my e-mail, I try to describe the spider in hopes of finding an antidote. Black, with orange stripes. Legs like barber-poles.
It’s useless. Either they’ve never seen the spider before, or I’m not describing it well enough. Ian is rigid, trembling, dying. ‘No,’ I think to myself. ‘This isn’t working. This isn’t how it goes.’
So I wake up.
I wasn’t scared, or even upset. In those final few moments, somehow I realized I was dreaming, and things weren’t working out as I’d planned. In that instant, the dream me became the dreaming me, the fear turned into stubbornness, and my son was sleeping soundly in the next room.
I realized three things, as I took my shower this morning:
- The spider attacked Ian, and not me.
- I’ve woken from fear in dreams, reflexively, but never intentionally.
- Dreams are a luxury.
I gaze at your faces
On my computer screen,
What did I miss today?
Ian: ‘No, not this book! I wanna read that book.’ He points in the general direction of the bookshelf.
Me: ‘Which book?’
I: ‘That book! The bus book.’
M: ‘Where? I don’t see it.’
I: ‘There! The bus book!’
M: ‘No, honey. Where? Where’s the book?’
I: ‘It’s behind the book!’
As any father, I have more than a few faults when it comes to raising my child. I don’t read to him as often as I should (which is, sadly, a staggering understatement), I’m terrible at thinking of artistic activities, and I’m more than a little impatient. But I’m very good at being silly.
I remember being out with my friends in high school, and pulling alongside a car full of businessmen. Somehow we got their attention, and started shaking our fists and scowling, gesturing toward the stoplight and revving our engine. Seeing a carfull of awkward, teenage band geeks, the guy riding shotgun understood the irony. He hopped out, and knelt in the middle of the street in a perfect starting position for the 100-meter dash.
Working one wet, slushy night at our local grocery store, I was pushing a cart through the parking lot. I don’t remember his name, but a fellow ‘bag-boy’ was also returning a cart after having helped a woman with her groceries. This man was in his sixties, and worked as hard as the rest of us in our teens. Slipping across the blacktop, he caught my eye, winked, and asked, ‘Wanna drag?’ We didn’t, but the offer was all that mattered.
Somewhere there is a picture of me and my step-father, crawling along the floor and wearing underwear on our heads. We were diving for sharks.
There are plenty of responsible people in the world. Work will always get done, bills will always be paid, proper, social behavior will always be maintained. Surprisingly, I find myself to be one of these people, and Kelly even more so. I have no doubt that Ian will develop a fine work ethic, and grow to be a polite, considerate young man.
There are far, far fewer people who are willing to stain a business suit just to have a laugh. While you’re out today, take a few minutes to watch the crowd. People walking, rushing, scowling, talking on cell phones. People ignoring each other and not smiling. Not my son, thank you very much.
Which is why Kelly and I dance with Ian in our booth at Applebee’s, or why we play pirates in the mall’s playground, or why my entire family loudly exclaims to the waitress at Stella’s that ‘We like pickles!’ I’m very thankful that everyone with a significant role in my son’s life is willing to make a complete and utter fool of themselves for Ian’s sake.
I think being silly with my son is a vital part of my role as a father. Apparently, the fine folks with the Ad Council agree.
(Thanks, Pete!)
Phil’s son has made him the coolest gift ever: a book of poetry!
The Fish
The fish, the fish
The fish is blue
The fish, the fish
The fish eats seaweed
The fish, the fish
The fish is on my plate.
A friend at work had a baby two weeks ago. Today, she brought him into the office.
I turn into an idiot when I’m around children. If there’s a kid within my field of vision, I’ll do my best to make friends and play. This generally involves contorted facial expressions and hiding behind things, which doesn’t sound so strange unless you happen to be with me. Then, I’m told, it’s embarrassing. Oh, well. I like kids, and they like me.
When my friend brought her newborn son through the door, of course I was drawn like a magnet. Newborns tend not to respond well to large, sudden movements, so my childish tendencies downshifted to soft whispers, squinty eyes, and gently prodding fingers.
The feet. The hands. The fingernails. The smell. Oh, the smell.
A co-worker placed him in my arms, and I started to sway. There’s just something about holding a baby that causes me to rock back and forth. It’s a compulsion. Maybe I want them to feel at ease, or maybe they’re just so light that I want the inertia of rocking to push them further into my arms, so I can hold them more.
And then I remembered Ian, and how terrified and awestruck I was when I held him for the first time. I felt clumsy and overbearing, like me holding such a fragile creature was like using a forklift to carry eggs. My arms are good for carrying suitcases and heavy boxes; maybe a vase, if it’s not an antique.
As with Ian, my hand started patting the baby’s back, and I could speak only in whispers. I started to get annoyed when anyone raised their voice, because I could feel his body flinch and I knew he’d been disturbed. We’d known each other for only a few minutes, and already I was protective and attuned.
I placed the baby in his carrier, careful to support his head and to make the transition as smooth as possible. Ian has no trouble supporting his own head. We race each other upstairs, to see who grabs his toothbrush first. He crawls into my lap - and out of it. He knocks me over, dances, sings, and falls asleep with a book wedged in his face. His eyes are open, all the time, and his arms fit perfectly around my neck.
I can’t wait to go home.
As milestones go, there are more glamorous. And more publicly laudable.
We’ve been trying to potty-train Ian since late-summer, and his response has been less than enthusastic. It’s not that he minds, it’s just that he has no interest. He was reluctant to crawl for the same reason - why work harder when rolling around gets the job done? If it ain’t broke…
Strangely enough, Ian had no trouble using the potty. He was successful on the first try, and couldn’t've cared less. Since then, it’s just been a matter of remembering to take him to the potty; otherwise, he’d rather that we deal with it. He’s had nights and naps of dry diapers, and has no problem with being held by Daddy to use the big-boy potties in restaurants. Yet he won’t go unless we take him.
As an addendum, let me say that Ian has no trouble using the potty - when it really doesn’t matter. Truly, who minds changing a wet diaper? In all honesty, I’d rather change a wet diaper than clean Ian’s potty. No, there’s only one reason people loathe changing diapers; a reason which grows exponentially once a child stops breastfeeding. And in that instance, Ian has been more than a little stubborn.
He certainly knows when he needs to use the bathroom. It used to be that, if Ian disappeared and grew quiet, we knew he was doing something naughty. Lately it’s become an indication that he’s off by himself, having a moment. We’ve found him behind chairs, in corners, in the basement, and always too late. The other night, he disappeared into the warren of a McDonald’s Playplace; it was an ill wind which preceded my son down the slide.
We told Ian that, from then on, if he went BM and didn’t tell us, he’d have to sit on the naughty step - and I wouldn’t change him first. Consequently, he didn’t go to the bathroom all the next day.
Knowing that our son was primed, as it were, last night Kelly and I decided to get things rolling. I sat Ian on the toilet, myself on the edge of the bathtub, and our portable DVD-player in front of Ian. If The Incredibles wasn’t going to get him to relax, nothing would.
So we sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat.
Twenty minutes and four numb legs later, Ian started to climb down from the toilet. I asked, ‘Did you go potty?’ He replied, ‘No, I can’t!’ I said, ‘Okay’, in that lingering parental tone of voice which implies a consequence. I turned off the DVD, and started to close the screen. ‘Wait,’ he exclaimed, his hand on my arm, ‘I want to try!’ He climbed back up, and sat.
And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And started to climb down. I shut the screen, and Ian frowned. ‘No, no,’ he cried, ‘I pooped!’ And he had. The crowd went wild. I cheered, Kelly cheered, Ian clapped. Hugs for everyone! I’m sure there will be other proud parenting moments, but last night was pretty special. I don’t know why.
I think an aircraft carrier is a perfectly appropriate reward for a man who has achieved complete mastery over the toilet.
When I hear about Ian’s mornings at Grammy’s, I feel like an idiot. When he’s with me, the two of us read, wrestle, hit each other with things, and sometimes paint. At Grammy’s, Ian sculpts, writes his own books, and makes refrigerator-friendly crafts from paper plates.
My mind doesn’t bend that way. But Kevin has inspired me with his fanciful diaper oragami:
Throwing Knife
Used for centuries now as a throwing knife to combat offending armies. It is not a fluke that diapers prepared like this caused bodily harm. The edges are razor sharp. Do not try this technique without proper guidance.
Creative practicality at its finest.
I’m quite familiar with mindless obsession, especially when it comes to video games. I spent a large chunk of my child- and young-adulthood with a Nintendo controller in my hand and a keyboard at my fingertips.
I remember when Super Mario Bros. 3 was first released. Reviews from Nintendo Power whetted my appetite, and the local bowling alley had an arcade version. My friend and I spent several afternoons (and quarters) tempering our desire for the game, next to the pool tables and cigarette machines. This game had such a powerful draw that it featured prominantly in a best-forgotten movie called, The Wizard, starring Fred Savage.
I used to dream about this game. Night after night, the bright-yellow box would drift through my mind. It called to me, just within my grasp. Percival had more restful sleep.
Jose has a similar problem. He wants a PSP, PlayStation’s answer to the GameBoy. He wants it badly:
My friend Jose Luis Junior, age 9, wants a PSP so palpably…he has a folder full of stock photos that he has clipped from Target and Toys R Us flyers. He has clipped photos of the PSP backside so that he has source material to correctly render the battery door. You see, Junior draws PSPs to scale, cuts them out and sells them to his friends!
Somehow, my experience pales in comparison.
Mister Jalopey, concerned only for his friend’s happiness, sends a digital plea to the Internet, asking for donations so that he can make Jose’s wish come true. The fine folks at Boing Boing heard of Jose’s plight, and its readers answered the call. The money has been raised, and, presumably, Jose will soon have his innermost desire in his hands.
Let’s forget, for the moment, that a nine-year-old boy will soon be given a $250 toy on a whim. Forget, also, that one of the games he is most excited to play is Grand Theft Auto. Or that Jose will most likely no longer produce his wonderful drawings. All of this is irrelevant.
I am not Jose’s father. Though the above may be reason enough for me to refuse my son a PSP, I can’t make that decision for others. And yet, this is exactly what Mister Jalopey, Boing Boing, and its readers have done. In altruistic spirit, they have superseded parental prerogative, and have taken it upon themselves to make a not insignificant gift to a child for whom they have no responsibility.
Of course, I don’t know the whole story. Maybe Jose’s parents approve of the enterprise. Maybe he has no parents, and Mister Jalopey fulfills that role. Or maybe Mister Jalopey fulfills that role regardless of Jose’s biological parents. In the grand scheme of parenting and childhood, a nine-year-old boy being given a PSP won’t make any headlines. Well, except this one.
What disturbs me is how quick we can be to satisfy a child’s every wish, if only to see him happy. And with how little thought.
As a parent, sometimes it’s hard not to dwell on thoughts of revenge. Not for the sleepless nights or diapers or dry cleaning bills. Those come with the territory. I find myself dwelling on the little things Ian does; the icings on the cake, the cherries on top, the straws that, again and again, threaten to break my camel’s back. These are moments when Ian strays from the workaday transgressions of childhood, and starts pushing buttons.
Eating, for example. He’s never been particularly willing at dinnertime, but there was a stretch of several months when all he would eat were grilled-cheese sandwiches and chicken nuggets. Getting Ian to eat anything else required determination, quick reflexes, and a drop-cloth.
One night, after having asked nicely for him to eat, Ian exhausted all of my tricks. No airplane, no train, no roller-coaster could get through the gates, and no threat of punishment or promise of reward could get one morsel of food past his shaking head and sealed lips. Finally, shoulders slumped and spirit broken, I pleaded, ‘Ian, please. Please, eat your dinner.’ He threw his head back, opened his mouth wide, and took everything we could give him.
Or his current insistence on repeating every question after it’s been answered, several times, and, likewise, making a statement again and again and again and again, until even the cat knows that Ian has seen the moon. Really, I think he’s just biding his time, filling the void, until the next revelation comes along.
Who can forget the two separate occasions, once with Kelly and once with me, when Ian mistook the bathtub for his diaper, giving no warning, and no chance for the parent to exit the tub? Not me. Not me.
Certainly there are some parents reading this who find themselves appalled. Revenge? On your child? Surely not. Before you judge, you need only look as far as your own parents for assurance that such feelings toward my son are perfectly valid. See the smugness on your mother’s face, the gleam in your father’s eye as they return your child after a day with Grandma and Grandpa; or as you struggle to discipline your child, while they sit idly by, holding hands and giving each other surreptitious high-fives when they think you’re not looking.
But parents have cameras, and pictures endure. Ian doesn’t know it, but Kelly and I have had our revenge. The other night, our plans were set in motion, and cannot be stopped.
One day, Ian will meet a girl. She will be lovely, thoughtful, and intelligent. They will fall in love, and they will marry. At the reception, when my son is lost in the eyes of his bride, and as I stand to bless their marriage, I will ask for the lights to be dimmed. And We. Will. Have. Our. Revenge.
