Jeremy wrote a letter to the editor of Parenting magazine, in response to an article entitled Inside the Mind of a Dad. Blogging etiquette requires, when a fellow blogger alerts me to an interesting bit of fodder, that I thank the tipper with a brief mention in my post. In this case, I don’t know that a ‘thanks’ is strictly necessary, since I’d say it was Jeremy’s duty to share this with his fellow fathers.
First, a little history. Parenting magazine and I share a brief and rocky past. I started reading the magazine when Ian was first born, and very quickly realized that I had better things to do with my time. I was thirsty for wisdom and support in the days of my fledgling fatherhood. I wanted to read about the experiences of fathers gone before me, and helpful tips on how not to break my son.
kno
Instead, I was bombarded with polls on nipple tenderness, articles on finding time to breastfeed at work, and one – one – piece by a man, on the lighter side of fatherhood. Something to do with sports. The magazine’s tagline is ‘What Really Matters to Moms‘. The website is divided into ‘Pregnancy’, ‘Baby’, ‘Child’, ‘Mom’, and ‘Buying Guides’.
There is no ‘father’ in Parenting. I threw the rag in the trash, and wrote a strongly-worded letter to the editor. I’d never before flushed a toilet in anger.
It seems this protectorate of paternal ineptitude is still going strong, and doesn’t look to be changing its party line any time soon. Exempli gratia, Inside the Mind of a Dad: Why he can’t clean and watch the kids at the same time—and what you can do about it.
Jeremy’s letter had me primed for maximum shock and disgust, but, actually, there’s some good advice in here. It’s basically about differences in parenting styles, which all parents need to discuss. And yet…
‘…Are male and female parenting tactics inherently different —and, if so, must we overlook these differences?
Nope. We can try to change them (and we might even succeed). Here’s how to handle some of the most annoying things dads do.’
The premise, of course, being that men and women do, in fact, have different parenting styles, and that men are wrong. And that women are correct. And that men need to change. And that women can change them. Feel free to read the rest of the ‘article’, if you must, but it’s generally more of the same. The tone of superiority and condescension continues throughout (notice the irony?), and men are left wallowing in ignorance.
Each section of the article quotes a wife in her instructions to her husband, translates that into man-speak, and then offers advice on how the woman can deal with the disasterous results.
You say: ‘I have to run errands. I’ll be back in two hours.’
You mean: Hold down the fort in general, and consider making yourself useful—there’s a load of laundry in the dryer with your name on it.
What happens: When you get back, the house looks like a tornado hit it. Your husband claims he didn’t have time to eat lunch, and there are seven messages on the machine because he couldn’t even answer the phone.
Really, it could have been a good article. There are differences between my and Kelly’s approaches to parenting, and these need to be discussed. What’s missing from this article, apart from the male perspective? Discussion. Here’s the advice on ‘how to deal’:
‘…Reminding your husband that he’s Mr. Efficient at his job can be an excellent way to ramp up his enthusiasm for household management. As Wexler points out, ‘When you’re trying to change someone’s behavior, it’s always better to profess faith in his competence than trash his incompetence….’
Don’t make your expectations clear. Don’t talk with your husband about your concerns. It’s much more effective to manipulate your husband into doing what you want. He is a child, after all. And men love nothing more than a manipulative woman.
The problem with this article, in general, is that it doesn’t foster honest and open communication between parents. It encourages passive-aggression and back-biting. And let me tell you, as man with several passive-aggressive bones in his body, this does not make for happy marriages or children.
And isn’t it wonderful that Parenting (and I use the term loosely) magazine published this article just in time for Father’s Day?
I was going to write a Father’s Day entry about our family’s trip to the zoo. I still may; a fella could learn a lot from the animal kingdom. But today, I found this article from the Chicago Tribune, about a man named Carmickle and his daughter, Alexis.
In 2001, Carmickle had spent three years fighting tooth-and-nail for custody of Alexis, who’d been born to a drug-addicted mother and placed with the Department of Children and Family Services at six weeks old. The writer who orginally covered the story met with Carmickle this past Father’s Day, to see how he and his daughter were doing. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard fatherhood described so simply, or so perfectly:
‘You’ve got to feed [children] everyday,’ he said smiling. ‘You’ve got to clothe them. And be real patient. You’ve got to give them a lot of love, even when they try you, and they will try you.’
It was no great challenge to father my child; Kelly and I shouldn’t drink from the same water fountain. I’m sure the same is true for most fathers. But fatherhood itself is a constant struggle, a battle. It is not passive or meek. Good fathers must be intentional and vigilent, not simply toward the well-being of our children, but also toward ourselves. God has given us the desire and capabilities to become great fathers. In His image, the potential is there. Yet there are so many distractions, so many obstacles to our reaching this goal.
Before marriage and fatherhood, there was only me and my wants. And that man boy still lurks, waiting to spend hours in front of the Nintendo, or at the movies, or doing every petty thing that comes to mind. His voice is getting softer, his insistence weaker, but he’s always there.
Popular culture, too, knows this, and uses this boy as Exhibit A when criticizing men and fatherhood. We are absurd at best, abusive at worst. We are inconsequential to the lives of our children, except when it comes to our checkbooks. And, too often, we do this to ourselves.
Also, we must not forget the men, like Carmickle, for whom fatherhood comes at great cost. Fathering a child is not always easy, nor is it a guarantee of fatherhood. There are men who grapple with becoming a father, who claw their way through tangles of biological or bureaucratic turmoil for the gift the rest of us have so easily received.
Fatherhood is precious and important. It is both a right and a privilege, and should not be taken lightly. It should never be taken for granted.
If the headlines of Men’s Health are any indication, the only health problems I need worry about are fatted abs and an idling sex drive. But, really, I don’t think much about my health. For a twenty-eight-year-old male, the only message I’ve heard is that, at some point, I’ll need to have my prostate examined. Even that usually comes with a punchline.
Apparently, gentlemen, we’re being done a disservice:
‘…It’s possible, too, that we’ve simply been sexist. We’ve complained bitterly that until recently women’s health was restricted to keeping breasts and reproductive organs optimally functional, reflecting the view that what made women valuable was their ability to conceive and bear children. But aren’t we doing the same thing with men?…
…In 2004, the National Institutes of Health spent twice as much on studies done only on women as only on men. We are not devoting nearly enough money to men’s health; worse yet, we may be spending those insufficient funds to answer exactly the wrong questions.’
I had no idea that being a man was fraught with such peril. Combine men’s increased health risks with our tendancy to ‘walk it off’, and it becomes clear that we really need to start paying closer attention to ourselves. When’s the last time you saw your doctor for something that didn’t require stitches?
Britain certainly does a much better job of getting men’s attention when it comes to health. Sure, it’s slightly inappropriate; but, then again, the same can be said of men:
Fellow Blogfather Jeremy was interviewed on this week’s Digital Life, about common problems facing dads, and the dearth of fatherhood internet resources*. Be sure to have a listen!
Jeremy also has a monthly advice podcast and column, called A Father’s Voice.
* He did not, however, talk about this site. Not a whisper. But the interview was good, anyway.
Ever since he turned three, Ian’s become (seemingly) more and more helpless. He’s forgotten how to use a fork, or feed himself. He’s lost the knack of washing his hands. He’s always been prone – no pun intended – to falling on his face, so I don’t yet know if he’s forgotten how to walk, or not.
Ian asks for help at every turn. I can’t do this. I can’t do that. Daddy, help me!
Last night we took apart Ian’s crib, and assembled his new bed. I’m sure if I’d take the time to think about it, some part of me would be a little saddened by this. But the three-year-old part of me is too excited by the ladder and tent. Ian was less so, at first.
I started removing bolts from the frame. Ian, like he does, asked why. I told him that he was too big for his bed, and that another little baby needed to use it. ‘No! It’s my bed!’
‘Well, that’s pretty selfish. You don’t need this bed anymore, and you have a cool big-boy bed to use, now. Don’t you want to share this bed with someone who needs it?’
‘No! I’m not a big boy! I’m! A! Ba! By! I’m not a big boy!’
Peter Pan doesn’t want to grow up, hence his ‘need’ for help. Babies need help, big boys don’t.
This morning Ian woke up at six o’clock. This, unfortunately, is nothing new. After my shower, I found Ian in our room, standing next to the bed, and reading with Kelly. He had one of his bulky, foam-board books, with inch-thick pages and monosyllabic words. Ian is far beyond this; Peter Pan is not.
The book was about farm animals, and each page was a single-piece puzzle. Ian ‘needed’ help with the sheep.
‘Mommy, help me!’
‘Ian, you don’t need help. You know how to do this. One end’s the head, and one end’s the tail. Figure it out.’ Kelly’s been on summer vacation for a few weeks, and hasn’t yet been able to sleep in.
Suddenly, I had a vision. Ian, at twenty-something, playing with Hot Wheels under his bed. I paused while pulling on a shirt. ‘Ian,’ I said, ‘I just want you to know that, when you’re eighteen, you’re out of here.’
He looked at me. ‘Huh?’
‘When you grow up, you won’t be living at home.’
He frowned. ‘I’m not living at home?’
I’d dug my own hole. ‘No, no. When you’re much, much older. Much later.’
Kelly rolled her eyes. ‘You know that’s the first thing he’s going to tell Grammie when he sees her.’
I’ve seen too many bad movies in my lifetime, and there’s a scene from one of them floating through my head. A reluctant son, a persistent father, a lake, and a dock. The boy is good-natured, shy, and wearing a bulky life-jacket and noseplugs. Maybe a swimming cap. We’re meant to empathize with the son as his father, red-faced and aggrivated, lifts him by the straps and tosses him, head-over-heels, into the water. ‘Swim! Oh, stop whining. Just move your arms!’
This is not a classic approach to either swimming instruction or effective parenting. The boy learns to swim and hate his father, and one doesn’t exactly cancel the other. Yet, there’s a small part of me that understands the appeal…
Ian has a rabid fear of water. No, he doesn’t. Yes, he does. Wait. What day is this? Well, pollen’s a bit high today, and the moon is waxing. Oh, and Jupiter has those two storms colliding. What’s your favorite color? Orange? Hmm. Then Ian definately probably doesn’t like the water a lot for a while. But ask me again later.
I can remember a time, nearly two years ago, when Ian loved the water. We went swimming in a hotel pool in Kansas City, and Kelly and I were tossing Ian back and forth, splashing, dunking. He giggled, he shrieked. He laughed! And then it was gone. The next time we went swimming, he wouldn’t go near the water without us. He wrapped his arms around my neck, dug his feet into my sides, and wailed in terror the instant I moved. A shivering barnacle in Pampers Splashers.
And so it’s been for the past two years: persistent aquaphobia puncutated by brief moments of waterlogged joy.
We’d expected the problem to be even worse last year, when we took a vacation to Florida’s Gulf Coast. If Ian had a problem with the Hyatt, how much more would he freak at the Gulf of Mexico? Surprisingly little; he was more worried about sitting on the sand. It took some coaxing, but after a while he was hunting for sand-dollars with the rest of us. Well. He spent the time in an inflatable raft. But still.
We spent last week in Orlando, at a resort with a volcano in the pool. A volcano. In the pool. There were kids everywhere, and you couldn’t move for all the water-wings in the water. Ian wouldn’t have any of it. Not only wouldn’t he swim, he wouldn’t move from the steps without crying, even if we held him. This pool had waterslides and a waterfall. Did I mention the volcano? The pool could’ve been filled with Kool-Aid, it wouldn’t have made a difference.
We also tried the ocean, this time the Atlantic. A little colder, a lot more wavy. He was terrified. I’ve never seen Ian more afraid or less consolable. He couldn’t be tempted near the water, let alone in the waves. Which, of course, I can understand. He’d never really experienced ocean waves, and all the foaming and crashing is more than a little intimidating to someone only three-feet tall. But he wouldn’t go near the wet sand. He howled and trembled and clung to my neck, his body covered in sunblock and sand.
I was frustrated. With the pool and the beach, I was just tired of Ian’s refusal to even dip a single toe into the water. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Ian had always hated water, but he hadn’t. He’s always gotten used to swimming and splashing, and has always ended up enjoying himself. I’ll admit it: I have a tendency to push Ian too hard. He’s generally so confident and quick to learn that sometimes it’s hard for me to remember that he’s just three years old. And that I’m his father.
Plus, he was really harshing my vacation.
We returned to the beach at the end of the week, determined that Ian would enjoy himself. (I know, I know.) We’d been talking to him about the ocean and the waves, and how fun and safe they were. And he was convinced! We also let him choose a little inflatable race car so that he could float next to us. He was excited! (I know, I know.)
So. We arrived at the beach, and he started wailing the moment our sandals hit sand. I snapped. I grabbed Ian and the raft, and marched into the waves. Big waves. Hard waves. It was high-tide, which means the water was coming in. Rushing in. The moon’s a pretty big rock, and the waves were coming in pretty quickly. And as I stood being buffetted by the tide, Ian screaming in my ear, my only thought was, ‘Relax! Come on! This is fun! Gimme a break!’
I saw Kelly standing on the shore, and I grew even more upset. I motioned for her to come out with me. ‘Hey, I can’t emotionally scar this kid all by myself!’ She met me at the shore, and told me about the high-tide, and that the waves probably also had something to do with the roiling black clouds coming toward us.
She can be so logical.
After the storm, we tried again. By then I’d taken stock, and realized that I needed to make another entry into the diary I plan to give Ian’s therapist. Anything to save time, you know?
I leaned down to lift Ian, but he beat me to the punch and leapt into my arms. We started walking toward the water, and it started. The whining, the shaking. ‘Hey, Ian! Wouldn’t it be great to tell your teacher that you swam in the ocean?’ He paused. Ian’s so excited to start school in the fall, and any mention of the subject will catch his attention. A crack had opened.
‘Yeah! She’ll ask what you did for your summer vacation, and you can tell her that you played in the ocean, and swam in the waves!’ He smiled, ever so slightly. I was ankle-deep, and Ian was sitting on my head. But he wasn’t crying. I kept walking.
As the waves reached my thighs, Ian pointed to the beach and started whimpering to go back. “No! No! No ocean! I want to play on the beach!’ My mind raced. You’re losing him! You’re Daddy; make him laugh! What’s less threatening than a wide-expanse of thundering, salty, shark-infested water? Well, the water’s foamy and dark. It kinda looks like…
‘Ian, look! It looks like an ocean of root beer!’ He looked at me and frowned. Even he knew it was a stretch. But I wasn’t giving up. ‘Yeah! See all the foam? You can tell all your friends that you went swimming in root beer! They won’t believe you. They’ll say, “Nuh-uh!” But you’ll say, “Yes, I did!” And you can show them the pictures of you, swimming in root beer!’
I was almost chest-deep, and a wave hit. ‘Woah! That was a big wave of root beer!’ He giggled. He giggled! ‘Uh oh! Here comes another one!’ I jumped, and the wave went under us. This time, he laughed.
Ian turned around and pointed at the waves. ‘Here comes another one, Daddy!’ We jumped, but caught a splash in our faces. ‘Ew! That’s pretty gross!’ Ian nodded, wiping his mouth. ‘But you know what? I want more! More root beer!’ I turned toward the waves and shouted, ‘More root beer!’
Ian laughed as I jumped another wave…and he let go of my neck. He raised his arms, clenched his fists, and yelled, ‘More root beer!’ We splashed, we jumped, we swam. And whenever Ian got scared, I’d say, ‘Hey, Ian. What do we say when we’re afraid?’ He’d look at me, grin, and we’d shout at the top of our lungs, ‘More root beer!’
Some men just laugh in the face of danger. Ian and I, we’re more specific.
We’re back from yet another vacation under sunny skies; the last in a long, long time. Taking a three-year-old to Orlando, Florida is rich fodder for blogging, so we’ll start with my latest entry at DadBloggers. Real Men of Genius is more than a Budweiser campaign…
After we were finally allowed into the building and staging area, the son started dancing. Knees bent inward, hopping from foot to foot, standing on his toes. Even if you’ve never had children, you know what this means.
…The closer we came to the ride, the stronger the urge. A combination increasing exponentially toward the moment when the father came to a Father’s inevitable conclusion.
