I'm contemplating opening this blog up to other fathers of young children who want to write about their experiences. I'm wondering if anyone who reads this has an interest in doing this or knows some folks whom they would like to pass it on to. Leave a comment to this with an email address and I'll get in touch with you if it seems to make sense. I'm trying to keep a lid on all my pre-judgments and the general need to be an editorial dictator. But one thought I have is that my goal for contributors would be that their writing would struggle with the work of parenting on an emotional level. There's plenty of testosterone elsewhere in the world and online. That's not forbidden but I'd be looking for something a tad, shall we say, deeper in addition to that.
I haven't completely made up my mind about opening the blog up but it's the direction I'm heading just because this project seems to need more voices than my own.
Thanks for your interest.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Balance?
Lately, I've been having some fantasies that seem rather detached from my current life. To wit:
A conversation about San Francisco, the city of our honeymoon, led to a daydream of returning there to spend more time. I imagined Nell and I wandering down a street and turning into a bookstore to get lost for an hour or two. We spilled out of there and into a cafe further along the street and then, our faces soft and serene, eventually wandered back to the apartment we had rented in Noe Valley without a care as to the time. And then....SCREEEECH, the memory of our two very vibrant children crowded into my thoughts. We wouldn't be taking in the view from the Golden Gate Bridge or wandering the boardwalk adjacent to it. More likely we'd be talking our way into the closest bathroom and figuring out which piece of our clothing we could use as a "wipe" since one of us left the actual wipes in the car, or the apartment, or just didn't bring any to the West Coast to begin with. Closer to home my thoughts drift to time loitering in a local coffee shop, where I used to hang out for hours reading or noodling in my journal. Then I remember that someone died of a heroin overdose in one of their bathrooms a while back and I wonder if I'd want to be wiping anything in there. Also, though it's mid-February, the thought of an annual kayaking trip I take to Maine with three or four friends causes my chest to heave with an expansion of breath that it hasn't known in, lo, so so many diaper changes, occasions of getting puked on and generally acting like a bellhop for the under 3-set in my house. There's another way to say all this: I'm tired. Actually, bone-tired, in the sense of the D.H. Lawrence poem.
My parents weren't writers but when I was growing up they could wax downright poetic on the notion of creating balance in your life. But having two kids under two (ish) means your life is constantly out-of-balance. It's like sitting in an over-filled rowboat while a couple of trolls jump up and down on the gunwhales as you paddle. Sooner or later someone's going to bang their head or just end up in the drink; it'll be a miracle if no one gets whacked with a paddle.
At the moment, we're planning to take our out-of-balance show on the road to Florida for a couple of days. This is a really good idea, except that it's not. If you've done something like this, you know the packing considerations related to car seats, strollers, etc. An added attaction is that, while I can't mention my wife's work, I can tell you that she'll be working and that her work goes late into the night. The kids and I will be with her at those places. Or we won't. Or we'll be in a hotel with their grandmother and all the lights off so that they--and we can sleep. Or we won't. (We're not the best planners in our family.) One thing is clear: we'll visit a lot of different bathrooms in a lot of different towns and hope that no heroin addicts have died in them. For a couple of nights we'll stay with her grandparents in a condominium they own not far from the ocean. Which is good. We'll make little plans to amuse ourselves, like "Go to the beach" and "Visit bird sanctuary." We might even get to the beach for an hour or so before someone melts down or gets 1st-degree burns. But our "To Do" list will look more like,
Find a place that sells environmentally friendly diapers
Caffeine
Family-sized Advil?
Caffeine
Will therapist do phone appointment?
Caffeine
Get wipes
CAFFEEEEEEEIIIINE!!!!
We're all addicts for happiness, and for formulas to attain more of it. Sometimes being a parent looks like a big board game designed to demonstrate what a silly quest that is. The point here isn't that there isn't a lot of crazy joy on the journey. It's just that nailing it down and making it repeatable is beyond elusive. Not that my little brain actually registers that and gives up trying.
I'll let you know how the trip goes.
A conversation about San Francisco, the city of our honeymoon, led to a daydream of returning there to spend more time. I imagined Nell and I wandering down a street and turning into a bookstore to get lost for an hour or two. We spilled out of there and into a cafe further along the street and then, our faces soft and serene, eventually wandered back to the apartment we had rented in Noe Valley without a care as to the time. And then....SCREEEECH, the memory of our two very vibrant children crowded into my thoughts. We wouldn't be taking in the view from the Golden Gate Bridge or wandering the boardwalk adjacent to it. More likely we'd be talking our way into the closest bathroom and figuring out which piece of our clothing we could use as a "wipe" since one of us left the actual wipes in the car, or the apartment, or just didn't bring any to the West Coast to begin with. Closer to home my thoughts drift to time loitering in a local coffee shop, where I used to hang out for hours reading or noodling in my journal. Then I remember that someone died of a heroin overdose in one of their bathrooms a while back and I wonder if I'd want to be wiping anything in there. Also, though it's mid-February, the thought of an annual kayaking trip I take to Maine with three or four friends causes my chest to heave with an expansion of breath that it hasn't known in, lo, so so many diaper changes, occasions of getting puked on and generally acting like a bellhop for the under 3-set in my house. There's another way to say all this: I'm tired. Actually, bone-tired, in the sense of the D.H. Lawrence poem.
My parents weren't writers but when I was growing up they could wax downright poetic on the notion of creating balance in your life. But having two kids under two (ish) means your life is constantly out-of-balance. It's like sitting in an over-filled rowboat while a couple of trolls jump up and down on the gunwhales as you paddle. Sooner or later someone's going to bang their head or just end up in the drink; it'll be a miracle if no one gets whacked with a paddle.
At the moment, we're planning to take our out-of-balance show on the road to Florida for a couple of days. This is a really good idea, except that it's not. If you've done something like this, you know the packing considerations related to car seats, strollers, etc. An added attaction is that, while I can't mention my wife's work, I can tell you that she'll be working and that her work goes late into the night. The kids and I will be with her at those places. Or we won't. Or we'll be in a hotel with their grandmother and all the lights off so that they--and we can sleep. Or we won't. (We're not the best planners in our family.) One thing is clear: we'll visit a lot of different bathrooms in a lot of different towns and hope that no heroin addicts have died in them. For a couple of nights we'll stay with her grandparents in a condominium they own not far from the ocean. Which is good. We'll make little plans to amuse ourselves, like "Go to the beach" and "Visit bird sanctuary." We might even get to the beach for an hour or so before someone melts down or gets 1st-degree burns. But our "To Do" list will look more like,
Find a place that sells environmentally friendly diapers
Caffeine
Family-sized Advil?
Caffeine
Will therapist do phone appointment?
Caffeine
Get wipes
CAFFEEEEEEEIIIINE!!!!
We're all addicts for happiness, and for formulas to attain more of it. Sometimes being a parent looks like a big board game designed to demonstrate what a silly quest that is. The point here isn't that there isn't a lot of crazy joy on the journey. It's just that nailing it down and making it repeatable is beyond elusive. Not that my little brain actually registers that and gives up trying.
I'll let you know how the trip goes.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Hungry Pigs
Lilly's dolls are a varied bunch, the only theme being that they were brought into our house by people we know and that they look like either animals, overfed and badly-dressed babies, bowling pins with faces, and cats (their own special animal category in Lilly's world). Some of her books are animals in disguise. Or are those animals in the guise of books? There's also a silly cadre of washcloth finger puppets: pig, cat, cow, horse, goat. All, including Elmo in his various iterations, are drafted regularly to play roles in the Wizard of Oz.
Lately they've been behaving VERY badly. Just this morning, the bowling-pin pig went on a rampage, trying to devour everything in his path. He snorted and sniffled in the guitar strings first. "That's not food," Lilly screached. Then he went after the bowling pin cow. "That's not food either," she said, more delighted but a little less certain about the nature of the game. Soon, the pig started snorting and sniffling Lilly's little PJ-clad body. "I need snacks," he kept saying. "I need snacks." (She was covered with flour from an early-morning bread-making project that went completely off the rails when she discovered how fun it is to watch flour float down from the bread board onto the floor.) In other words, the perfect target. The flour, dabbed on her nose and cheeks and caked on her fleecy PJs only delighted the pig more. "Mmmn. Mnnnhh.Slup.Urgghle.Hmmnh.Mmmmnnn." The pig chased after her and pinned her to the carpet. He (of course it's a he) was loving his wriggly 26-pound feast. Not so much Lilly. "I'm not food," she said, laughing. The first time. "No, I'm not food. I'm not food." Each time her voice rose a little, became a little sharper. "I'm not food!" She finally screamed in a way that got through to the pig. He stopped, put his nose down on the table, like he was lying at the end of an alley now, returned to his life as a bowling pin in Lilly's little game.
Lately, I'm doing my best to learn the entire libretto from the Wizard of Oz. But halfway through many of the songs, Lilly stops me and says, "No Dada, that's too fast." Or, "No, Dada sing it like this," after which she proceeds to sing it dead on key. Sometimes she'll just say, "No Dada, don't sing." Her spirit sings out in her every interaction. A spirit of love and trust and of the most precious engagement with all that is life. My spirit sings out too, I suppose. It's singing when I'm cleaning up her spills and when I'm driving around the valley trying to figure out how to sing "Here we go a-wassailing" on key. It sings out too, when another pig goes on a rampage and when the bunny sucker punches the kitty. Maybe spirit is like that--a little rough around the edges. Maybe it's just that messy inner liveliness that we recognize as truth and beauty in our children and we have so much trouble trusting in ourselves. Maybe.
Lately they've been behaving VERY badly. Just this morning, the bowling-pin pig went on a rampage, trying to devour everything in his path. He snorted and sniffled in the guitar strings first. "That's not food," Lilly screached. Then he went after the bowling pin cow. "That's not food either," she said, more delighted but a little less certain about the nature of the game. Soon, the pig started snorting and sniffling Lilly's little PJ-clad body. "I need snacks," he kept saying. "I need snacks." (She was covered with flour from an early-morning bread-making project that went completely off the rails when she discovered how fun it is to watch flour float down from the bread board onto the floor.) In other words, the perfect target. The flour, dabbed on her nose and cheeks and caked on her fleecy PJs only delighted the pig more. "Mmmn. Mnnnhh.Slup.Urgghle.Hmmnh.Mmmmnnn." The pig chased after her and pinned her to the carpet. He (of course it's a he) was loving his wriggly 26-pound feast. Not so much Lilly. "I'm not food," she said, laughing. The first time. "No, I'm not food. I'm not food." Each time her voice rose a little, became a little sharper. "I'm not food!" She finally screamed in a way that got through to the pig. He stopped, put his nose down on the table, like he was lying at the end of an alley now, returned to his life as a bowling pin in Lilly's little game.
I felt terrible but I can't say I was surprised. All of her animals have been behaving badly lately. Just the other day that pig got decked by the bunny. "Hey that wasn't nice. Bunny shouldn't do that," Lilly said. I looked down at the bunny, who was at the end of my left hand. Hmmn? It was 10 in the morning. Saturday. I'd been muttering to myself for a couple of minutes--okay, two weeks non-stop--about the relentlessness of parenting. Lilly's endless "play with me" requests were beginning to sound to my ears like the tones prisoners use with one another when they spot a weak link in the crowd. But aggressive? Me? No, that's the very opposite of me, I think.
I'm so gentle with this little girl of ours--and the little boy who is always rolling around the carpet next to her now. Truly. This morning she woke up and came running down the hall from her room. "Hey, what's going on guys?" she said, in her little voice. Her mom was out of town so she clambered up and snuggled in with me. "It's warm in here," she said. "Ooh, your hands are warm, she said, grabbing my fingertips. "They're warm 'cuz it's warm under the covers." I pulled her close hoping I could drift off to sleep but she was having nothing of it. She sat up and put her white kitty in front of my face. "Meow, meow." I couldn't help but laugh. And the love I felt in that moment felt as strong as the roundhouse the bunny decked the pig with.
Parenting seems to defy any attempt at labeling it. Any attempt to reduce it to a word. A few come to mind: Love. Extreme suffering. Ecstasy. Punishment. But it's simply a matter of spirit. Ours rubbing up against theirs, sometimes until they're rubbed raw. Which is pretty messy, let's face it. I feed Lilly well, play with her endlessly, cuddle with her in bed in the morning and hold her hand at night when she drifts off to sleep. I also emit Charles Manson-like screams at times. Sometimes I wonder why if God gave us a natural drive to eat food he didn't also give us a natural drive to potty-train ourselves--or at least run our diapers through the washing machine. And it has occurred to me lately that a bunker built deep in the earth would not only protect my family if the apocalypse comes but that it might serve as a comfy "Man room" until then. So....
Lately, I'm doing my best to learn the entire libretto from the Wizard of Oz. But halfway through many of the songs, Lilly stops me and says, "No Dada, that's too fast." Or, "No, Dada sing it like this," after which she proceeds to sing it dead on key. Sometimes she'll just say, "No Dada, don't sing." Her spirit sings out in her every interaction. A spirit of love and trust and of the most precious engagement with all that is life. My spirit sings out too, I suppose. It's singing when I'm cleaning up her spills and when I'm driving around the valley trying to figure out how to sing "Here we go a-wassailing" on key. It sings out too, when another pig goes on a rampage and when the bunny sucker punches the kitty. Maybe spirit is like that--a little rough around the edges. Maybe it's just that messy inner liveliness that we recognize as truth and beauty in our children and we have so much trouble trusting in ourselves. Maybe.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Things that quicken my heart:
The warmth of his velvety skin against my cheek.
The solid maleness of this little creature. Already he's thicker through the upper arms, back and torso than his bigger sister, like he sneaks out and chops wood when we're not looking.
A glimpse of my father in his blue eyes. It's there and then gone just as quickly and I ache to pull it back.
The burble of sounds from his mouth as he bounces in his chair. And the promise of the words to come.
The feel of his head resting in the nest of my arm and shoulder as I carry him across the house.
Blue jeans on his bowed legs.
The smell of his perfect head. It's like a whiff of hay on the breeze.
Bedtime. His. Bedtime. Ours.
His sister murmuring his name and brushing her cheek up against his.
Bedtime.
The firm S-curve of his spine as I hoist him aloft, naked to the world.
Bedtime.
The warmth of his velvety skin against my cheek.
The solid maleness of this little creature. Already he's thicker through the upper arms, back and torso than his bigger sister, like he sneaks out and chops wood when we're not looking.
A glimpse of my father in his blue eyes. It's there and then gone just as quickly and I ache to pull it back.
The burble of sounds from his mouth as he bounces in his chair. And the promise of the words to come.
The feel of his head resting in the nest of my arm and shoulder as I carry him across the house.
Blue jeans on his bowed legs.
The smell of his perfect head. It's like a whiff of hay on the breeze.
Bedtime. His. Bedtime. Ours.
His sister murmuring his name and brushing her cheek up against his.
Bedtime.
The firm S-curve of his spine as I hoist him aloft, naked to the world.
Bedtime.
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