If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt around my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades—
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
I’m not quite sure why parents write letters to their children. You’re illiterate. If you weren’t, you still wouldn’t know what ‘illiterate’ means. Or ‘quite’. I’m fairly confident in your grasp of ‘why’.
Yet I’m compelled to write something, say something, about your third birthday. I like odd numbers; three is my favorite. Schoolhouse Rocky says it’s a magic number…No, not witchcraft. It’s a metaphor. Like a similie, except…look, we’ve been through this. Don’t start quoting Bible passages at me!
I like three because it implies order and balance; unless you’re talking about a three-year-old boy. There’s a point, a focus, from which everything hangs.
The obvious and most important example, of course, is the Holy Trinity: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I hesitate to say ‘ghost’, because by now you’ve seen an episode or two of Scooby-Doo. God can do better than an unfitted sheet with eye-holes. And he doesn’t run an amusement park.
This particular number is the most important in your life. If you forget ignore everything I teach you, and even if you’re skeptical, please remember this. The love, happiness, and acceptance you’re looking for will always be found in God, and in Christ. It will be complete and constant, and all else will disappoint. Listen to your father.
The more tangible three is our family: me, your mother, and you. Your mother loves you fiercely, and will protect and help you in whatever way she can. She doesn’t brook stupidity or back-talk, in that order, and will make sure you know when you’ve crossed a line. It helps if you make her laugh.
I’m your biggest fan. I will be disproportionately proud of everything you do, and make sure the world is kept abreast of every step you take. I will intentionally embarrass you in public, and in front of your friends. But you’ll never doubt that I love you, even if you’re not sure that I like you. It helps if you make me laugh.
Your mother and I will both love you, no matter what. If you’re happy, and living your life for the glory of God, then we’ll be happy, too.
Certain people, who may or may not be named Grandpa Gilbert, would like you to have a sibling or five. For now, it’s just you. You were born three years ago; the experience was quite surprising, despite the fact that your birth was induced. (That means you were evicted. Your mother is a harsh landlord.) One minute I was eating a pastrami-on-rye in the hospital cafeteria, the next you were screaming in my face.
Since then, you’ve taught me so much that I don’t think I can ever repay the favor. Because of you, I now have a better understanding of family, of God, of priorities and perspectives. We have a lot of fun.
Your other three is actually six: three grandfathers, three grandmothers. Your grandmothers will give you hugs, chocolate milk, and stern looks. Your grandfathers will do anything you want, and teach you to throw a baseball. Your mother and I are who we are because of who they are. Listen to them and call them once a month. Remind me to call them.
You also have two Aunts and one Uncle. (No, I didn’t forget Uncle Corey, but he’s an in-law, and throws off my threes.) These are the people who will tell you when to ignore me, and who will provide you with cousins, who are always best at convincing you to do things you shouldn’t.
Finally, you have three cats. They’re cats.
Like I said, three is a fairly important number in your life. Remember your threes, and remember how much love is in that number. Happy Birthday, Ian!
Ian loves pirates. To celebrate his third birthday, and in true bestest-mommiest fashion, Kelly threw a buccaneer bash, complete with eye-patches, fake moustaches, and a pirate-ship birthday cake. The treasure-map tablecloth was her idea, too, but I drew it!
She also created a treasure hunt for our swashbuckling rogue. She took polaroids of places in and around our home, and each picture led to the next. The final clue led to Ian’s plunder.
Ian was more excited about the hunt than he was about the presents.
To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he’d removed
the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.
I can’t remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy’s palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife’s right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he’s given something to keep.
I kissed my father.
If you wake at two-in-the-morning, crying, that’s fine. If, because it’s two-in-the-morning, it takes me a while to dredge myself from beneath the covers, and you start wailing to get my attention, well. That’s okay, too. Do whatcha gotta do.
When you tell me that you need to use the bathroom, I’ll be ever so proud. My frustration will vanish, I’ll hog-tie Mr. Hyde. I will happilylovinglypatiently efficiently walk you to the bathroom, and back again.
If, however, crisis averted and Daddy bleary-eyed, you insist - with increasing volume and agitation - that you’d like to play with your flashlight, rather than go back to sleep, count yourself fortunate that YaYa and Auntie Julia are visiting, and sleeping soundly in the adjoining room.
Because, otherwise, I would fold your flashlight into a party hat, and make you wear it.
[No, I don't know exactly what that means. But it's the first image that came to mind forty-five minutes later, when I still hadn't fallen back to sleep.]
[Here's an entry I found from last month, jammed between two Norton Anthologies of English Literature. I'll explain why I have these once I can figure out why I bought a thirteen-volume, 1970s edition of the Oxford English Dictionary.]
In our home, the problem of dishes has a simple solution: the cook doesn’t clean. If Kelly cooks, I wash the dishes. If I were to cook, Kelly would wash the dishes. When Ian can reach the sink, he will wash; I will supervise.
I’m happy to do it. There’s a part of me that enjoys cleaning plates, and the other parts are grateful to have such a loving wife, and mother to my son. Besides, with a dishwasher, all I really do is rinse.
But in washing dishes, as in all other things, I am imperfect. While I stand at the sink, fists on hips and towel thrown over my shoulder like the Red Baron’s scarf, my eyes scour the kitchen for things to clean: an empty glass on the table, saucepan on the stove, macaroni on the floor. Nothing escapes my attention, and I fall onto the couch with a satisfied sigh.
‘Honey,’ Kelly’s voice calls from elsewhere.
‘Mmm?’
‘Did you mean to leave this knife in the sink?’
‘Oh. No.’
‘And the spatula?’
‘Huh? No…’
‘And the…’ By now I’m on my feet, annoyed and most likely rolling my eyes. I’ve cleaned everything. I’m sure of it; I was there. Yet there they are: the knife, the spatula, and the saucepan lid. Did you know that spatulas can laugh?
Kelly thinks this selective washing is hilarious; I’m simply dumbfounded. I just don’t see the dishes, even if I rinse them, bundle them together, and move them to wash a plate. They don’t exist. It’d be easy to think that my wife is hoarding dirty dishes in the pantry, just to mess with my head; it’s easier to think that I’m an idiot.
Do I lapse into unconciousness at the sound of running water? Dawn-induced amnesia? Maybe I have a second personality who’s too self-important to bother with the minutiae of paring knives and potato peelers. ‘A cheese-grater? You’ve got to be kidding.’
Or, am I simply in too much of a hurry?
Ian has the same problem with toys. Our sometime rule of toys is that Ian must put one away if he wants to play with another. This is easily done with a firetruck or aircraft carrier. He’s less inclined to follow this rule for wooden blocks and Tinker Toys.
His initial burst of energy is quick and efficient. Grab, dump. Grab, dump. Grab, dump. Next to the chair, under the cat, behind my ear. And then he stops, suddenly, as if I accidentally sat on his remote. He sits on his heels and smiles. Done! Except that there are blocks all around him; in front of him. He crushes blocks on his way to the toy closet, and sweeps them away to open the door.
I point. ‘Ian? There? See, you missed a block.’ He looks at my finger; tumbleweeds roll through the den. ‘No, no. There! Look there!’ Finally, he follows my finger and sees the block. He blinks and looks at me. ‘Well? Pick it up, please.’ He does; the others remain.
I’ve asked other wives and husbands. So far, I’m patient zero. Either Ian and I have problems, or my chromosomes have some prepubescent gene that’s still waiting to be turned off. Kelly has to live with Ian for at least fifteen more years. Me, she has for life.
Until a cure is found, I’m washing the forks first.
Tiny Eyes is a service which simulates the vision of newborn babies at various weeks of age and distances. This is how my son saw me at less than a month old, from six inches away.
When he was this age, I remember Ian following every move I made. Now that his vision is markedly improved, I find it ironic that he doesn’t watch where he’s going.
To parent, or not to parent? Read more from my monthly post to DadBloggers:
‘…I looked back and saw Ian slowly walk from the playground to sit at the foot of the tree, hands in his lap. Ian rarely sits, and he never does anything slowly. My heart fell. …I’d gone to the playground to play with my son, and here I was, playing with other men’s sons.’
