Posted: January 8th, 2010 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping, Fatherhood | 7 Comments »
“The child is father of the man” – William Wordsworth
By the time a boy is 15 or 16 years old, he has inherited his definition of manhood. Observations of his father play a major part, as do experiences with other male role models. Your first basketball coach, who taught discipline, teamwork and selflessness. Your first boss who expected you to adhere to a code of conduct and to complete a list of tasks in a prompt and effective manner.
The high school teacher whose chalk-stained sport coat hung just against the ledge of the blackboard, gathering ever more chalk dust as he droned on by rote, teaching you both algebra and the danger of settling for “good enough.”
But at the end of the day, and at the end of your twenties, it comes back to dad. Dad, who left home before you were awake and returned after it was dark. Dad, who delayed dinner and set your stomachs to rumbling because “…we’ll eat when your father gets home.” Dad, who sat you on his lap and let you steer the car as he worked the pedals, and you felt so empowered, so privileged, so grown up.
Dad, who listened to you bemoan student loan payments and a steady diet of tuna, spaghetti and powdered iced tea mix, and cheered your first job after college, and visited your first apartment, which was scarcely bigger than your childhood bedroom.
“Work hard,” he said. “If you work hard and pay your dues, you’ll be rewarded. You’ve just got to pay your dues first. Everyone does. Someday you’ll get married and have kids of your own and you’ll provide them with a home, hot meals, clothing and school. That’s what you’ll do.”
And that’s what you do. You marry a beautiful woman. You find a decent job. Nothing that’ll buy a house on Capri but it’ll pay the bills and allow for a small vacation to the shore in the summer. You have a child, then two. You’re paying the bills. You’re providing for your family. You’re a man.
Then, it ends.
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Posted: January 3rd, 2010 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping, Toddlers | Tags: cold, family, Fatherhood, new england, parenting, snow | No Comments »
I try to keep myself organized. Not “Martha” organized, but somewhere between her ideal and the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. This past weekend I was going through old photos (remember when “going through old photos” involved shoe boxes and rubber bands, not computers and hard drives?), which is a risky task. I invariably get distracted by the nostalgia of it all, and the next thing I know, four hours have passed and I’ve accomplished nothing.
And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.
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Posted: January 1st, 2010 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping | No Comments »
1. Please stop sending me dress-up clothes
Well-intentioned friends and relatives have been sending us dress-up clothes. A bevy of princess dresses can trash a bedroom in less than five minutes. The cleanup time is substantially greater, and accompanied by a soundtrack of whining and negotiation:
“Honey, you clean up these dresses and I’ll help you zip it.”
“But I caaaaaan’t. I’m too tiiiiired.”
“You pick up these pink ones, honey, and daddy will help with the rest.”
“But daddy, it’s too hard.”
“If you weren’t tired enough to make this mess, you aren’t tired enough to clean it up.”
“But I caaaaan’t. Waaaaaaaaaaaahh.”
Please. No. More. Dress up clothes.
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Posted: December 28th, 2009 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping, Fatherhood | No Comments »
Son:
Ah, you’re growing up so quickly. It’s been a few days since our last man-to-man. We’re a little older, a little wiser — and a little closer to the years when you’ll want nothing to do with me. Thus, it’s time for another talk. Like I said last time, this is important, so pay attention.
1. Learn how to make a decent paper airplane. Don’t scoff, this is important. A good paper airplane will allow you to entertain yourself, impress your friends, annoy your teachers, and even amaze other kids once you’re an adult like your old man. It requires only a single sheet of paper, so you can whip one out almost anywhere — the airport, a restaurant, Easter Sunday Mass — and often for free. What’s more, you can use almost anything you find lying around, like a place mat or a parking ticket.
There’s more to it than simply folding a piece of paper into a triangle and tossing it onto the floor. First, fold a lengthwise sheet of paper in half, then lay it flat again. Fold the top two corners to meet the seam you made, then do so again. Next, re-fold the paper in half along the lengthwise seam. Finally, fold each side in half so that the top meets the bottom edge to make wings. Throw and enjoy. Note that putting a paper clip on the nose doesn’t really help, despite what people will tell you.
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Posted: December 27th, 2009 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping | Tags: education, Fatherhood, features, gen x, generation x, kids, parenting, rug time | 3 Comments »
“Go outside and play.”
“But…”
“No ‘but.’ Go.”
I looked at my mother through the dirty screen door. She wore bright yellow elbow-length rubber gloves and a look of determination — “You are NOT coming back in this house.” I turned around and walked into the yard, defeated.
A few hours later, when my mother was again talking to me through the screen, the conversation was quite different.
“I said come in here now! It’s time to eat”
“No! I want to stay outside.”
“David, I am not kidding…”
Such were my childhood summers. I spent a lot of time outside so that my mother was able to get things done unburdened by a whining, needy kid.
Today, I feel guilty if I don’t spend every waking moment on the floor, exploiting every educational opportunity that presents itself. I recently read an article that described this phenomenon as a generational thing, more prevalent among parents in their thirties than previous generations.
Call it The Parenting Guilt of Generation X.
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Posted: December 26th, 2009 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping | Tags: features | 1 Comment »
Previously, I’ve shared some fatherly advice with my son, William. Here’s another father-to-son post, but with a twist.
Son:
Someday, you’ll be a teenager. You’ll try to get away with things — sneaking out, lying about school work, fake IDs…every trick in the book. Well, guess what, my boy…
I wrote that book.
Your decrepit old dad was 18 for a time, too. So let’s drop the pretense now and avoid a lot of effort and aggravation, okay? Here we go.
There is only one reason teenagers burn incense, and it’s got nothing to do with meditation. And before you even ask, I’ll answer: No, you may not have a fan in your bedroom window.
There is no “squeak-free” path through the house. Do you think we live in a converted summer cottage for the fun of it? This place creaks and groans with every footstep. It’s a giant booby trap, my boy. Good luck sneaking in at 1 a.m.
Some of your friends will tell you that it’s safe to drink vodka, because it has no odor. If you’re willing to put their advice up against dad’s nose, you do that. Let’s see what happens.
When you come home with the minivan and the rear view mirror on the passenger’s door is missing, you’ll tell your parents that you were fiddling with the radio, got distracted and grazed a telephone pole. The truth is, you were playing a game with some of your idiot friends called, “Let’s See Who Can Get Closest To The Telephone Poll Without Hitting It,” and you lost. Trust me, your parents will know you’re lying.
Finally, I’ll give you the same warning your grandpa gave me. If you get arrested, get comfortable, because you’re spending the night in jail.
Don’t get the wrong impression, son. I’m not “out to get you.” I simply want to save us some aggravation. And don’t try to con your grandfather.
He was worse than I was.
Son:
Someday, you’ll be a teenager. You’ll try to get away with things — sneaking out, lying about school work, fake IDs…every trick in the book. Well, guess what, my boy…
I wrote that book.
Your decrepit old dad was 18 for a time, too. So let’s drop the pretense now and avoid a lot of effort and aggravation, okay? Here we go.
There is only one reason teenagers burn incense, and it’s got nothing to do with meditation. And before you even ask, I’ll answer: No, you may not have a fan in your bedroom window.
There is no “squeak-free” path through the house. Do you think we live in a converted summer cottage for the fun of it? This place creaks and groans with every footstep. It’s a giant booby trap, my boy. Good luck sneaking in at 1 a.m.
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Posted: December 24th, 2009 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping | 2 Comments »
My friend’s wife is pregnant with their first child. “What’s it like?” he asked me. “Life with kids I mean.”
“Imagine you’ve got a large, cardboard box,” I told him. “The kind they use to ship clothes dryers. Fold back the flaps and place everything you enjoy inside, like your Sony Playstation, your bicycle and electric guitar. Gather abstract things as well, like uninterrupted football games, free time on the weekends and the sense that you actually can do something you want to do, when you want to do it. Toss it all in. Don’t worry, it will fit. That’s why we got the big box.
Next, get some packaging tape and seal it tight. You may hear some whimpering, but don’t stop. That’s just the media room you planned to build in the basement calling out to you. Ignore it.
Place the box and a shovel into the back of your truck and drive deep into the woods. Dig a large hole and toss the box inside. Again, ignore the muffled sobbing. Cover it with dirt and get back into the truck. Put it in gear and drive away. Don’t look back, just go. It’s easier that way, like pulling off a Band-Aid.”
He stared at me, waiting for the punch line. I stared back – unshaven, tired and 20lbs heavier than I was B.C. (Before Children). “When do Iget the box back?” he asked.
“You never get the box back,” I said. “The box is gone now.”
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Posted: December 22nd, 2009 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping | 1 Comment »
Bees like honey.
Fish like water.
Flowers like rain.
They’re amateurs. A bee’s heart isn’t in it. Fish hold a passing interest in their life-sustaining environment. They don’t love these things, not when compared to the following.
My wife loves Christmas.
Hers is the pinnacle of devotion. An adoration so consuming it makes Pa and Laura Ingles look like adversaries. This why Grace thinks it’s normal to have eleven Christmas trees in our house.
And they went up before Thanksgiving.
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Posted: December 22nd, 2009 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping | Tags: ballet, christmas, herr drosselmeyer, kids, nutcracker | No Comments »
I’m in a room brimming with estrogen. The air smells like Aqua Net, makeup and rented tutus. Quick flashes of pink, sequins and tulle buzz in my peripheral vision. Tiny, sparkling girls run in all directions.
I feel like an interloper in this frenzied beehive of femininity. Can daddy prep his little girl to dance in “The Nutcracker” all by himself?
I’m shaking a huge can of hair spray. “Grace, look at me,” I say. “I just need to flatten your hair down.”
“Maybe a mommy can do it,” she says, eyeing the women in the room.
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Posted: December 19th, 2009 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Coping, Toddlers | No Comments »
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
She stared at me as if I had grown a second and third head of my own. “Elmo is a monster. He’s funny. Telly Monster is nice. Don’t forget Cookie Monster.”
She wrinkled her little nose. “Zöe,” she said.
“Right, Zöe!” I said. “Zöe is a ballet monster! Did you know monsters like ballet?”
She laughed, and that was it. No more complaints about monsters. I marched out of that room as if I were about to take the center podium at the Olympic Games. Super Dad, right here. Everyone gaze upon me and know that I am The Man.
So, two weeks ago, when nearly-three-year-old William started with the monster routine, I was ready. “Step aside,” I thought, “and let The Master do his thing.”
Fail.
“Waaaahh! I want Da-deeeeee!”
I went into his room. “What’s the matter, William?”
“I don’t like the dark.”
“Oh, but you’ve got your night light, your friends.** See?” I turned the light on, then off. “The same friends, just in the dark.” I turned the light back on and pointed to the wall. “See your pictures?” (His walls are covered with mini posters of The Boston Red Sox.) I turned the light back off. “The same in the dark.”
I could tell he wasn’t buying it, so I sang another song and he settled down.
The next night brought same thing. “But that monster is going to get me,” he said. This continued for almost a week, and then I broke down. My Super Dad Powers were gone. Just like that. I traded in my cape and mask.
I went downstairs and grabbed the seashell night light we bought while on vacation. (It had been living in the bathroom.) Back in his room, I plugged it into the socket right next to his crib. “That’s my Florida light!” he said, and proceeded to hold each of his friends up in turn so that they could “see” it. He changed his orientation in the crib so that he could stare at it while lying there. I closed the door and he went to sleep.
That was about a week ago, and he hasn’t had a disruptive night since. My powers failed, but at least my boy is sleeping. With his Florida light. And his friends. And the hall light on.
Welcome to the club, kid.
*Apologies to Rod Serling
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
Read the rest of this entry »
