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 happily lovingly patiently 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.
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.’
This past weekend, Kelly and I were out late at a fund-raiser. Ian had been long in bed by the time we returned home, so we crept upstairs to kiss him goodnight.
We’ve had a rough few weeks with Ian; especially me. Lately he and I just seem to rub each other the wrong way, him infinitely defiant, my patience very much finite. Things have been improving, but for a while I was terribly frustrated and depressed. Ian and I have been best buds for so long, that I didn’t quite know how to handle his anger toward me. Actually, anger I can handle. It was the disdain and dislike that was tearing at my heart.
All of that vanishes when Ian’s asleep. With his eyes closed, and breathing deeply, Ian is once again the little boy who loves me. I forget that he’s about to start school and that his 3T jeans are too short, or that his bed seems cramped. More importantly, I forget his flashes of anger and tiny, pummeling fists.
It’s even better when he’s only half-asleep. He likes to read before bed, and he usually falls asleep cradling a book, its corner digging into his face. We try to be quiet as we slip into the room, but sometimes Ian’s eyelids flutter, and he lifts his head.
‘You turn off my light?’
‘Yes, honey. Shhh. Go back to sleep.’ I kiss his cheek and bring the covers to his chin. ‘I love you, kiddo.’
‘I’la you too, Daddy.’ By this point he’s on autopilot, and only we can decipher his sleepy mumbling.
There is a balm in Gilead.
When we walked into Ian’s room on Saturday night, his light was on but he was off. Way off. People talk about sleeping like the dead, but these people never had children. As I knelt to adjust his blankets, I thought of Kelly’s grandmother.
Nearly three years ago, she knelt to see her newborn great-grandson who was, as I recall, blissfully and finally asleep. Her eager hands were quick to rearrange his blanket, because ‘he looks like he might be cold.’ Ian woke, screaming, and his great-grandmother just happened to be there, to soothe and coddle and coo.
My eager hands tugged on Ian’s blanket. It was wrapped around his legs, so I had to pull fairly hard. Then, of course, I had to make sure he was entirely covered. There’s nothing worse than cold feet. And I couldn’t just tug the blanket this way and that – I might have woken him. No, the best thing is to pull back the blankets completely, and cover him all at once.
Two or three tries later, and Ian was finally covered. Then I noticed that he was sleeping a little crookedly. I didn’t want him to wake with a sore neck, so I carefully shifted his body. That, of course, also shifted the blanket. I didn’t exactly see an exposed toe, but you can never be too careful.
Finally, assured that Ian was comfortable, warm, and sleeping soundly, I had no choice but to concede defeat, and kiss him goodnight. I certainly didn’t mean to slam his bedroom door.
[This is the first of several entries which were started, stalled, and left to moulder in the basement. This entry was started in December, 2005.]
One of the hardest days of my life was the first day of work after having been home with Ian for the first few months of his life. It hasn’t gotten any easier to be away from my family during the day, but pictures, cards, and scribbly, scrawly drawings help to keep Ian at the forefront of my mind.
I’m glad to do it. I’m thankful that Kelly is able to stay with Ian; what better gift to give my wife and son? Though, some days Kelly might prefer a sweater. Still, it can be difficult.
Last night, Ian was being his naughty, two-year-old self. And, as was his due, I sat him on the Naughty Step. Sometimes he sits with resolve, sometimes reluctance; this time he just cried. And cried. When the two minutes were over, he kept crying. I gave him a hug, and asked, ‘What’s wrong, honey?’
‘I don’t like Daddy.’
I frowned. Well, considering he’d just been punished, no surprises there. ‘Why don’t you like Daddy?’
And between sobs and gulps of air, Ian looked at me, eyes wet with tears, and said, ‘Because Daddy goes to work.’
I drew him closer into my arms, and didn’t say anything. Kelly – who knows me very well – spoke over her shoulder, ‘Oh, don’t fall for it.’
Too late.
Me: ‘You’re really pushing my buttons today, kid.’
Kelly: ‘Ian, in your defense, Daddy’s buttons stick out pretty far.’
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.
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!)
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 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.
