Last night Kelly and I volunteered for clean-up after Ian’s school’s fall festival. It was going to be a late(r) night, so we asked her folks if Ian could spend the night.
Did I mention that we live in St. Louis?
Kelly and I got home just in time for the ninth inning. We were in bed, listening to the game on the radio. With that final strike, Kelly turned to me. ‘If Ian wasn’t awake before, he sure is now.’
I’m not sure when Ian finally got to bed. I’m not sure I want to know.
Odysseus to Telemachus
By Joseph Brodsky
My dear Telemachus,
The Trojan War
is over now; I don’t recall who won it.
The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave
so many dead so far from their own homeland.
But still, my homeward way has proved too long.
While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,
it almost seems, stretched and extended space.
I don’t know where I am or what this place
can be. It would appear some filthy island,
with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.
A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.
Grass and huge stones…Telemachus, my son!
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
I can’t remember how the war came out;
even how old you are—I can’t remember.
Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.
Only the gods know if we’ll see each other
again. You’ve long since ceased to be that babe
before whom I reined in the plowing bullocks.
Had it not been for Palamedes’ trick
we two would still be living in one household.
But maybe he was right; away from me
you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,
and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.
At some point, I started luring Ian to bed by racing him to his toothbrush. By the time he reaches the finish line, he’s forgotten that he doesn’t want to sleep.
Sometimes I cheat. I rush up the stairs, grab his toothbrush, and hide in the shower. And no matter how often, or how obvious, Ian always has trouble finding me. He probably doesn’t want to believe that his dad could be so lame.
Last night he was first to the toothbrush. I was a few feet behind him; he turned to look at me as he reached for the handle. He grabbed the toothbrush, giggled madly, and made a dash for the shower. He changed his mind as his hand touched the curtain, and ran to the closet, grasping wildly for the doorknob before I had a chance to see him.
Except that I was there. He knew I was there. He saw me there. Yet he still tried to hide.
He’ll make a terrible spy.
Canon is a four-year-old boy who was born with a heart defect known as Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. He received a heart transplant last month, but is now showing signs of rejection. His lung has collapsed, and this week has had a series of strokes.
He’s very, very frightened.
His family has created a blog for him, and is asking for prayers. Please take a moment to visit, and leave your thoughts and prayers. Please pray for Canon.
Hear my cry, O God;
listen to my prayer.
From the ends of the earth I call to you,
I call as my heart grows faint;
lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
For you have been my refuge,
a strong tower against the foe.
I long to dwell in your tent forever
and take refuge in the shelter of your wings.
Psalm 61:1-4
[Update 10/23/2006: Canon passed away on Saturday morning.]
My folks just left after a week’s visit, helping with home repairs I could do myself if I were a real man. Apart from new outlets and flashing on the roof, it was great seeing my dad spend time with Ian. They don’t see much of each other, mostly because otherwise neither would get any sleep.
Sunday night, Ian asked my dad to read Green Eggs and Ham. As Ian snuggled in the crook of his arm, my dad’s voice switched from Gregorianesque monotones to lyric trills to rap. He turned the book into a song.
When I read Green Eggs and Ham, I like to add dramatic pause and special effects. I flap my lips with a finger when Sam is underwater.
Kelly reading Sweet Pickles is like Jim Dale reading Harry Potter. Each character has its own voice, and she manages to keep them straight. I think my Yak is better, but everyone else sounds like Patrick Star.
It’s no wonder Ian likes to read. For the rest of us, books can go only as far as ourselves. If there’s a voice, it’s my own (usually not out loud). There are a few books I’ll read two or three times, but most get one shot. Ian gets to read his favorite books again and again, each time with a different interpretation. Even the length can change; parents are allowed to abridge.
I nearly cried when I heard Madonna’s disgrace of an American Pie. I wonder how Ian feels about my Spoon in the Stone.
After work earlier this week, I noticed that Ian had a small cut on his forehead. I didn’t ask what had happened, or how. I knew: he’s three years old. If neither he nor Kelly brings it up, I don’t either; if there’s not a co-payment involved, there’s no reason to worry.
Wednesday night, my mom and dad came from Des Moines for a visit. The only time ADHD has crossed my mind is when Ian’s with a grandfather. He ran in a circle and hit a corner of the kitchen table with his head. His forehead.
Last night my dad and I carried a door into the basement, from the backyard. Ian was following, clomping around in new cowboy boots. These boots were made for walking, not clomping. He stumbled, and fell head-over-heels down the concrete steps. Onto his forehead.
He now looks like a hastily-drawn Harry Potter.
Toast lands butter-side down. Is this true for boys and bruises, or is Ian’s head really that big?
Follower
By Seamus Heaney
My father worked with a horse plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hobnailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow around the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
This morning, Ian’s head popped from his pillow the instant I opened his door. ‘Good morning!’ He’s not always so bushy-tailed. He told me that his dragon and his kitty—both of which, moments before, had been crushed under his unconcious dead weight—were meeting each other. He told me that he’d thrown his puppy on the floor, and pointed to make sure I noticed. He was in a wonderful mood.
Until we got to the kitchen, when I asked him to use the bathroom.
‘You need to help me,’ he insisted. His held his arm out, rigid; his finger pointed toward the true biological north.
‘You don’t need me, kiddo.’ He really didn’t…doesn’t…and I still needed to make my lunch. In the mornings, time is always of the essence.
Have you ever tripped, and then looked back to see what had caused your stumble?
Ian clenched his fists at his side and his face crumpled. He threw his head back and started dancing on his toes, like Sally Brown. He went on and on, crying and shouting, that he needed my help.
Because he didn’t want to wash his hands.
Yet again, this is entirely my fault. When Ian first started using the bathroom, I, of course, did most of the work. And, if we’re not at home, I still do. Public toilets usually aren’t scaled to three-year-old stature, and the urgency of the moment is such that we often can’t afford to wait for him to disrobe.
I yank, I lift, he fires.
So I wouldn’t make him wash his hands. Lessons in personal hygene aside, I just didn’t like spending time in the mensroom; besides, my food was usually getting cold. As Ian grew, it became more and more difficult to lift him to the sink without pulling something. The informal rule was that if he didn’t touch, he didn’t wash. I know, I know.
This has never been the case at home, yet he’s made it a rule by association. Because he so often uses public restrooms, and because Daddy usually takes him, the hands-free doctrine should prevail. It’s a matter of convenience. If he has to use the toilet by himself, he has to touch. If he touches, he has to wash.
Now I know how lawyers feel. Stupid precedence.
Montrose County, Colorado has received a $1M federal grant to start a pilot fatherhood program:
‘Peg Mewes, director of Montrose County Health and Human Services, said Montrose was only one of only two counties in the state that recently cashed in on a $1 million federal grant program to help fathers with parenting.
The countywide program is open to any dad, but those who don’t have their kids living with them seem to need it the most, Mewes said.
The free program will help dads with parenting skills, legal rights and drug problems, and they’ll be encouraged to keep up their child support payments.’
The county’s goal is to hire five ‘life coaches’ and enroll thirty fathers by the end of the year.
I don’t mean to belittle the struggles of divorced fathers, or Montrose County. I’m always excited to see new programs like this. However, I’m curious to know how they determined that non-custodial fathers most needed a fatherhood program. It seems to me—and I could be completely wrong—that there are more resources for legal advice and fathers’ rights than fatherhood in general.
The program is available to all fathers, but will all fathers be attracted to the program if its services are targeted toward a specific group of dads?
Mewes’ further comments imply that theirs will be a ‘fathers’ rights group’, because ‘many fathers have no idea what their rights are’. If, instead, they were to promote the significance of fatherhood, and provide men with the tools and support to become better husbands and fathers, wouldn’t that encourage divorced fathers to learn and demand their rights?
And, perhaps, to avoid divorce in the first place?
[See also Paying Daddy to Be Dad, about a New York State program which provides tax credits to non-custodial parents to encourage payment of child support.]
Apparently what Ian’s teacher says is true: the work of children is play.
Yesterday’s top story in parenting news was a report from the American Academy of Pediatrics: ‘The Importance of Play in Promoting Healthy Child Development and Maintaining Strong Parent-Child Bonds‘. Both CNN and NPR covered the report, CNN focusing on younger children, NPR on teenagers.
Our children are so invovled in make-me-smarter schools and look-what-he-can-do classes that they’re left with no time to play. No time to be themselves. As a result, kids are experiencing more stress, depression, and the side-effects of both. Their imagination and creativity is being stunted.
Ian goes to school two mornings each week. On Wednesday nights, we have dinner at church, after which we go to choir and he goes to catechism. We’ve been thinking of taking him to dance class.
Part of Ian’s lack of involvement is because we’re lazy and have little money for djembe lessons. Besides, we like the quiet. But more than that, we’re fiercely protective of our family’s time. As a teacher, Kelly is all too familiar with students who have jobs, choir practice, baseball, debate, youth group, play rehearsal, and lectures on synchronized semaphore. And occasional homework. They run themselves ragged. Listen to the interviews of the NPR report, and you’ll know what I mean.
I also spend 50% of my waking, weekday hours away from my wife and son. Why should I make that any worse so that Ian can do inverse functions before he can tie his shoes? Ian doesn’t need a social calendar or academic advisor. He needs to run around in circles and fix our dishwasher with a hammer.
Last Saturday, Ian and I spent the morning before lunch playing in the backyard. I tried making baskets into the tower of his Playskool castle. He was a dragon, and breathed fire on me because I was cold. Then he made me hot chocolate.
[Update: Dad in Progress discusses an essay in Time on media distortion and the myth of the over-achieving family.]
