Tim J.
Myers is a writer, songwriter, storyteller, and
university lecturer and storyteller living in Santa
Clara, California, where he teaches at Santa Clara
University. This column is a serialization of his
recent book Glad
to Be Dad: A Call to Fatherhood.
He's been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes,
has published over 120 poems, has two books of
poetry out, and won a national poetry contest
judged by John Updike. His childrens book
Basho and the River Stones is a Junior Library
Guild selection, his Tanukis Gift got an
excellent boxed review with art in the New York
Times, and his Basho and the Fox, a New York Times
bestseller and Smithsonian Notable Childrens
Book, was also read aloud on NPR. He has ten
children's books out and two on the way, won the
2012 SCBWI Magazine Merit Award for Fiction, and
has published much other fiction and nonfiction.
And he can whistle and hum at the same time, though
he hasn't won any awards for that. Yet. Check him
out at www.TimMyersStorySong.com.
Homelife: The Benefits to
Men
So You Think Its
Easy?
Two Hours in the Life: A
Cautionary Sample
The Way it Is
The Way it Is
A chapter from Glad to Be Dad: A Call to
Fatherhood
I had been studying the way various
peoples bring up their children, who takes the
responsibility for them and how that responsibility
is understood, since this seemed to me a place
where a people frees or enslaves
itself.--Ursula LeGuin, Four Ways to
Forgiveness
The ruin of a nation begins in the homes
of its people.-Ashanti proverb
At that point back in the 90's, my wife and I
found ourselves excited. Years of hard work and
careful decisions were soon to bear fruit. Our two
sons were in middle school, and she was at work on
her dissertation and therefore close to finishing
her degree. Family life was running smoothly and on
schedule. We had Big Plans.
But that September all hell broke loose.
Suddenly my spouse and I learned, in the most
direct way possible, that abstinence is the only
100% effective form of birth control. (And
wed never been big on abstinence).
Actually, all hell broke loose is
exactly the wrong way to say it. After nine years
we were pregnant again, which was more like a bit
of heaven breaking into the world. Only we
werent prepared for it. A friend said it was
as if wed been sitting at a poker game with a
royal flush when a gust of wind blew down the door
and scattered the cards. I told people God had
decided to throw a kegger at our housebut
forgot to tell us.
(You should see the popping eyes of complacent
couples in their thirties and forties when I tell
our little story; Ive sent so
many guys to the urologist I ought to be getting a
percentage from the AMA).
Our daughterwhom Ill call
Shilly-Shally, for reasons soon
apparentwas born that May. She was, and is,
one of the most beautiful creatures Ive ever
seen, a falling star we happened to catch, a
bright, wild, funny, utterly lovable kid. But this
Blessed Event brought disruption and difficulties
in its wake. My wife, finishing the dissertation
only through herculean effort, finally got her
Ph.D., which meant she had more earning power than
I did. So I became our daughters primary
care-giver--Mr. Mom, as people so
stubbornly insist on saying--and found myself
called on to develop skills and attitudes Id
only begun to learn when Id stayed home with
my sons for a short time years earlier. Living that
life, and watching other families go through
similar struggles, led me to write this book.
A surprise pregnancy isnt the norm, of
course, and as a stay-at-home dad Im
certainly in the minority of American men. But the
general circumstances of our family life have been
just what, from many indications, most American
families continue to face, and which the American
family in general has been facing for decades now.
If youre reading this book, youre
probably also going through it, or are about to.
The basic problem? There simply isnt enough
time and energy to go around. (Money, of course,
also plays its customary role). The tug-of-war
between work and family has many if not most
parents worried, frustrated, and physically wiped
out. Add to this the other, less publicized
conflict parents inevitably face in balancing their
own needs and desires with those of their children.
And measure in the ominous news, based on a
University of Michigan study reported in the New
York Times, that the time squeeze felt by
parents trying to juggle the demands of work and
family is increasingly being transferred into their
childrens lives.
Well, maybe the word parents is only
partially accurate here. The truth is that in many
cases its women who bear the full brunt of
this. And the problem has been compounded in a
number of other ways too. Sociologist and economist
Paula Rayman, according to Ellen Goodman, has found
common ground agreement between
Americans of all incomes, races and locations on
the interlocking crisis of the economy, the
workplace and the family. A "Harper's Index"
from 2006 shows that newly-married women have a 17%
rise in housework activitywhile newly married
men come in at minus 33%. Many of us believe that
some of the old ways just arent working any
more. And the strain is showing in lots of
marriages.
The wide interest in Allison Pearsons
best-selling novel I Dont Know How She Does
It should be, I think, even wider. The novels
heroine, a working mother with two children, begins
to surmise through the chaos of her life that such
a set-up may be a one-generation-only
trick. We are living proof, Kate
Reddy says, that it cant work,
arent we? One reviewer emphasizes that
the books climatic come-uppance
directed at men will be deeply satisfying to
any working woman whos ever wondered when men
are going to Get It. In the real world beyond
novels, Kathy Thompson of Albany, Indiana, had a
similar experience. An ordinary housewife, she was
fed up with taking care of everything at home while
her husband was off fishing, so she went on strike,
simply posting a sign in her yard to that
effectthen was astounded when her story
garnered world media attention. She shouldn't have
been surprised.
And consider for a moment how many Fatal
Attraction movies have come out over the last
couple decades. In the 50s we saw
droves of science-fiction flicks about invasions
from outer space; fear of monolithic Communism and
nuclear war gave these movies some of their power.
In a similar vein, the driving force in '90's films
like Sleeping With the Enemy, The Hand That Rocks
the Cradle, etc., may be our dread fascination with
intimate enmity, the fear that people we love and
trust may suddenly go psycho on us. It strikes me
that what Hollywood is using here (in its usual
half-sleazy, half-vital way) is the profound
tension in many male-female relationships today.
This is perhaps why studio execs believed we were
ready to see a new version of The Stepford Wives in
2004. And why so many tune in to watch the inept,
selfish husband and usually angry wife on Everybody
Loves Raymond. Such tension in marriages reveals
itself most obviously in divorce and spouse
abuse--but it can hurt any couple. And one of the
main points of contention has become the division
of domestic responsibility, the seemingly simple
question of who does what.
When I was ten or eleven, back when my friends
and I still played King Arthur with broomsticks and
trash-can lids, my dad announced one night at
dinner that the boys in the family would no longer
be required to do dishes or housework of any kind.
We were stunned. Up to that point, wed
cleaned up after dinner one week, the girls the
next. Suddenly, by imperial edict, we were free.
Our job from now on would be yardwork; that was
what made it fair. Never mind that we lived in
Colorado, with no lawn-mowing for most of the year
and not all that much snow-shoveling. And
dont forget, my brother Mike and I added
hotly when our sisters protested, we go out for
sports--which is hard work!
Jane, the oldest daughter, sputtered at this.
You guys play sports for fun! she insisted. (I only
learned years later how much she resented,
rightfully, the familys intense focus on male
athletic involvement in those pre-Title IX
times).
Its not just fun! we countered angrily. In
sports we fight for the family honor!
With this heroic-sounding phrase rolling so
pleasurably off our tongues, my brothers and I were
utterly convinced of our righteousness.
So the girls took over the dishes--and dishes
for a family of 13 are nothing to sneeze at. But it
didnt matter if they were mad; it didnt
matter that Mom herself disagreed. The Lion had
spoken, and we boy-cubs secretly congratulated
ourselves, puffing up our scrawny grade-school
chests. My sisters still remember that day with
something like the bitterness the Irish feel for
Oliver Cromwell. But we boys had been handed a
role--and we were fine with it.
The only immediate effect was that, with our
sisters still in the kitchen after dinner each
night, we got the best places on the couch to watch
Bewitched or The Carol Burnette Show. But there
was, of course, a much deeper dynamic at work. The
girls resentfully gritted their teeth; we boys
accepted the fact that work in the home
had nothing to do with us. This was a defining
moment for my family--and it defined us by
splitting us apart, male from female.
And that, it seems, is where some of us still
are. The mainstream American family is, obviously,
under stress. Mothers who work outside the home are
knocking themselves out trying to run two shows at
once; for many of us, daily life has become
routine panic. And the most logical
resource to help deal with all of this remains
largely untapped: men. We need more than time-worn
images of fatherhood that focus only on taking kids
fishing, or teaching them how to play catch, or
baking the occasional casserole. We need more than
humorous, self-deprecating admissions of
non-involvement and domestic ignorance. We have to
go to the depths of the thingbecause that's
where we find purpose and a guiding vision as to
the real breadth of what fatherhood can be.
At this point, though, you may be thinking,
Okay, but none of this really applies to me.
Im already involved with my family. And maybe
you are; more and more men are evolving along these
lines, and millions can legitimately claim to be
committed, involved fathers and husbands. But are
you involved enough? Remember how you laughed when
your wife had no idea what sports terms like
birdie, rabbit ears,
swinging for the fences or
covering the flats mean? Domestic life
has its own jargon too. So take this little
test--then compare your score with hers. All you
have to do is define the terms:
DOMESTIC VOCABULARY QUIZ
1. board book
2. fabric softener
3. a double ender
4. cubby
5. pre-K
6. DPT
7. retainer
8. roseola
9. tippy cup
10. sippy cup
Extra Credit: Translate the following
sentences:
1. She has no tolerance for anything but
Amoxycillin, Doctor! Suprax just isnt an
option!
2. I was getting him a roll-up when he
started chewing on the grapes in his pop-up--but
that was no reason to send him to
time-out!
(ANSWERS AT END OF CHAPTER).
Dont feel bad if you didnt measure
up all that well. The last thing I want to do is
add to the reflexive male-bashing we hear far too
much of these days. Everyone should realize that
being domestically involved is not always a simple
matter for American males; this can be a
challenging and complicated issue.
For one thing, most American men obviously
havent been trained to make this kind of
commitment. For generations, at least in our
culture, a father was isolated from his own family
almost by definition. When I was a kid, no one used
the term absent father--even though we
pretty much all had one. The breadwinner role
helped create this isolation, since, at least from
the time of the Industrial Revolution, fathers have
tended to leave home for work. But there were other
reasons too--the worst of which, I think, was the
idea that adult males are reasonable, level-headed
people but nobody else is. The pomposity and
emotional gridlock this attitude created are
satirized beautifully in, of all places,
Disneys Mary Poppins--but maybe that comic
portrait doesnt go far enough. The poet
Robert Bly speaks of his fathers continual
brooding, which Bly came to understand
as a form of grief. This, I think, tells us much
more about the dark reality of the isolated
father.
Today, of course, TV and magazine ads regularly
feature fathers holding infants (these
fathers, of course, are bronzed
shirtless hunks in their early twenties) or Father
Knows Best types tousling the curly heads of older
kids. With a few exceptions, we didnt see
such things when I was growing up. But although
things have begun to change, theres still a
lot to do. The image of father and child isnt
considered negative in Western culture, of
coursebut it simply hasnt been evoked
much, in marked contrast to the sacred image of
Madonna and Child. Imagine a Christmas card showing
Jesus in Josephs arms, with Mary nowhere in
the picture. People just havent tended to
think that way.
This kind of social change comes slowly. Even
today, according to Michael ODonnell of the
Center for Fathering at Abilene Christian
University, there are more than 70,000 books on
mothering--but fewer than 1700 on fathering! Men
who hunt will read about deer and ducks, men will
pore over car magazines or the sports page. So why
shouldnt a guy who has children actually read
about parenting, including his partnership with the
woman hes sharing this life-task with?
And most men are already working very hard at
demanding jobs in a highly competitive world. Many
are also genuinely confused about their changing
roles. Besides, men have made progress. Millions of
American men have willingly taken on their share of
the work (and the joy!), becoming true partners and
responsible fathers. Approximately two million have
even become full-time, stay-at-home dads. And there
are plenty more, I suspect, who want to change but
dont quite know how, or don't know how to
work past the obstructions some wives set up
against their full participation. (On a lighter but
still important note, consider this: In 1996, 14 of
the 100 finalists for the Pillsbury Bake-Off were
men, and Kurt Waits Macadamia Fudge Torte
took the grand prize--the first time in history a
male has done so. Dick Boulanger won one of the
prizes in 2006. Baking isn't parenting, of course,
but such sweet examples show a new openness in men
to valuing the domestic).
We can see real success, too, in the way
womens lives are changing. A friend of mine,
formerly in the Coast Guard, tells a true story
that illustrates how far, and how fast, weve
come. A Coast Guard commander was presiding over a
staff meeting when the subordinate officers noticed
that the old man was acting strange.
The commander had never looked so pale and shaky,
and paused from time to time to breathe heavily for
a moment--then resumed the discussion as if nothing
unusual had occurred.
Finally one of the subordinates realized what
was happening. Excuse me, sir, he
ventured in a quiet voice, but I think
youre in labor.
He was right. The commander was pregnant with
her second child. Shed been induced for the
first, already had an induction scheduled for the
second, and so assumed that her contractions were
just Braxton Hicks. But at that moment her stiff
upper lip was no match for her uterus, a vessel no
longer under its captains control. She later
gave birth to a healthy baby girl. And who can
guess what seas that kid will cross?
But as a society, it seems to me, we
havent fully kept up with these changes. My
sister Jane, now a gifted and compassionate
counselor, deals every day with families in crisis,
and one negative she encounters again and again is
the absent father. Get this! she told
me the other day. Im doing a session
with a family who have a six-year-old boy in
in-patient psychiatric care. This is supposed to be
a family session. So where do you suppose the
father is? Out in the parking lot sleeping in his
car. Of course there may have been
psychological reasons for this man's absence; maybe
he felt marginalized in the family. But in the
final analysis it all amounts to the same old
problem. And this anecdote is only part of a
world-wide reality; a Dutch research group found in
a recent study, the AP reports, that young
children are rarely in the sole care of their
fathers, regardless of the culture. Guys have
begun to change, yes, but--to put it in more
familiar terms--were still playing catch-up
ball.
I couldnt begin to list all the examples
Ive collected of references to parenting that
simply leave men out completely. A few will suffice
to establish the general tone. Under a 2003
newspaper headline about the role of parent labor
in the national economy comes the opening sentence,
A mothers work is invisible when it
comes to the gross domestic productthat
classic unspoken assumption that care-giver men
simply dont exist. An article that mentions
the people most influential in determining
the course your whole adult life takes goes
on to say, Of course theres Mom, and
sure to be others, but dont
forget
[college] admissions
officers
Its as if fathers have
been erased by some Soviet-style
ministry--in favor of college admissions officers!
A report on a study of maternal influence on
teenage girls is at least more forthright, and,
presumably, practical: The effects of fathers
were not addressed because fathers were not
interviewed. In an even more heartbreaking
example, an article in my local paper called
"Mothers of U.S. casualties share grief" focused on
the mothers of American soldiers killed in Iraq;
the piece mentions "relatives," but fathers are,
incredibly, absent.
I think the time has come for all husbands and
fathers to be fully involved in the lives of their
families, and for American culture to see this as
normal and desirable. Its only fair that
males do their share, and are valued for that. But
to me there are even stronger reasons than equality
and domestic practicality. Many men are beginning
to understand just how much theyre missing by
not being domestically involved, and how much they
themselves can learn and grow when they are. This
is part of what author Warren Farrel refers to when
he says, Instead of a womens movement
or a mens movement, we should be working on a
gender transition movement. One of the most
beautiful things I learned by being a father was
simply that it made me so profoundly happy.
But before going on, I should try to define the
situation in a general way. Being Dad
is a broad term, and it covers a variety of
circumstances. This book isnt just for men
who consider themselves primary
care-givers; far more American men regularly
spend hours per day with their kids but arent
officially full-time.
Some fathers work nights or odd schedules and
care for kids in their time off. Some work
part-time; some work in the home; some have
schedules that defy description. Many are divorced
and care for their children during visitations, or
between visitations as custodial parents. Some are
unemployed or recently laid-off and have become
domestic figures temporarily. And of course lots of
guys are at their jobs full-time during the work
day but still look after their children while their
wives work or go to school or travel. Any of these
situations can include significant child-care and
other domestic duties.
And even men who work long hours or travel
extensively can still be true partners to their
wives and true fathers to their children.
So even though American fathers statistically
spend little time with their children (that figure
is apparently going up), millions of men are
already care-givers, and millions more may find
themselves spending serious time at home as
economic and social patterns continue to change.
And even if you arent part of a dual-income
family, these issues are probably still a basic
part of your day-to-day life.
Another important point here is the nature of
what we call family. Statistics cited
by Stephanie Coontz, an expert on family life, show
that 50% of American children live with their
biological mothers and fathers, with an additional
21% in stepfamilies; this book is aimed primarily
at all such two-parent homes. But the word
family, according to sociologist Jan
Bernardes, can have over 200 different meanings;
were learning that it has much more to do
with how people feel than with any particular
structure. I define family as a group of people
living together in love on a more-or-less permanent
basis. My focus in these pages is on the two-parent
heterosexual family, but that doesnt mean
this traditional and majority form is the only real
or important one. I dont mean to suggest,
either, that theres anything wrong with
couples who choose not to have children at all.
So why should men be domestically involved?
First, I think it's clear by now that many men
must change for the sake of their wives. Most women
I know are working way too hard trying to balance
work and family. I read how increasing numbers of
women have grown disenchanted with the
Superwoman role, mainly because
theyre exhausted. I see how my own wife, an
incredibly efficient and hard-working person, still
has trouble meeting all the demands in her life.
And I note how, when women are breadwinners,
theres generally no such thing as withdrawing
from the domestic sphere as some men do.
And this isnt just an American or Western
phenomenon. Parade Magazine reports that 45% of the
women on Earth (aged 15 to 64) are working. (That
actually means working outside the home; those of
us who have been homemakers are a bit
sensitive about these terms). Parade adds that
while women in developing countries
devote 31 to 42 hours per week to housework, men
only do 5 to 15.
Second, I think men must change for their
children. In her column for the Boston Globe, Ellen
Goodman has written magnificently about all these
issues, and quotes the scholar David Blankenhorn on
this crucial point: [There is] an
emerging consensus across political lines that the
fragmenting of the family is the principal cause of
declining child well-being. Goodman goes on
to say that [f]athers are no longer
peripheral to this discussion. They are
central. Historian John Gillis discusses
the central contradiction--that modern
society and the modern economy are not really
family-friendly. As evidence, consider this
statement by an investment-banking bigwig,
paraphrased by the New York Times as
confirm[ing] that there is little
room in the...field for men or women with strong
family commitments. Clamorous titles of
articles in national magazines reveal our growing
concern: Putting Kids First; Whos
Taking Care of the Children?
Some Americans seem to believe that, when it
comes to balancing work and family, you can get
something for nothing, that merely cutting corners
is a way to have it all. But we cant have it
allat least not all at once. The hard truth
is that raising a family carries a personal and
professional cost for parents. And if you
dont pay now youll only have to pay
later. The work, love and self-sacrifice you
spend on your children will make them
happy and productive adults, and will make them
closer to you, all of which will make you happy
too. Skimping on them when theyre young
usually means you end up paying in some form of
heartbreak--yours and theirs. As one horrible and
extreme example, consider Oregon Senator Gordon
Smith, whose adopted son committed suicide at 21;
Smith wrote a book about it called Remembering
Garrett. I don't mean to imply that Senator Smith
was responsible for his son's tragic end. But as my
local paper reports, Smith "especially was consumed
with guilt because of the large amount of time he
spent away from home pursuing his business
interests and political career."
We must remember, too, that this isnt just
about our individual families; men must change, in
my view, because no less than the fate of the
nation depends on it. A society is no more than the
individuals who make up the whole. And some of the
most critical issues facing us today are being
played out in our individual domestic
circumstances. David Murray speaks eloquently about
the crucial significance of the parent-child bond,
which achieves, among other things, ...the
orderly transfer of social meaning across the
generations. ...[C]hildren are
the ultimate illegal aliens, he continues;
[t]hey...must be socialized and
invested with identity, a culture... In other
words, our society is not merely affected by
child-rearing--it is child-rearing. And this is
true in the practical as well as the broader sense;
as the title of an Ellen Goodman column has it,
Economy hinges on family, not vice
versa.
Still, theres much confusion. A review of
a new scholarly book about the almost 31 million
two-income marriages in America reveals, I think,
some of it:
The first myth shattered by their
new study [the authors say] is that
everyone in the family is happier if Mom stays
home...Being at home with small children all day
and taking care of the household can be
drudgery...[The authors cite] studies of
women who did just that in the
1950s...
The article then quotes one of the authors as
saying
Were fighting this myth
that women are terribly happy at home. What we
know is that home contains more dangers to their
well-being than work. Housework is worse than
being on the assembly line at Ford.
This is big news? Please. Anyone whos ever
seen an I HATE HOUSEWORK bumper sticker
suspects already that homelife isnt exactly
Club Med. Of course its absurd to assume that
women are automatically happy in domestic life. But
many are. And we cant conclude that domestic
responsibility itself is therefore something to be
avoided at all costs. Time spent at home often is
drudgery--but if done right, its an inspired
drudgery, and crucial to the human enterprise.
Theres a certain amount of drudgery in
running a business, writing a novel, or training
for the Olympics. There was drudgery in the
day-to-day labor whereby Michelangelo illuminated
the Sistine Chapel. Our desire for equality between
the sexes shouldnt lead us to belittle the
hard work and self-sacrifice that parenting
naturally demands of us.
Part of this attitude may be a general negative
reaction to the sentimental paeans to domestic life
the Victorians are so famous for. That kind of
soupy exaggeration bugs me too. And such
sentimentality isnt accurate, at least in my
experience. Domestic comes from the
Latin domus, a house. Not a whiteframe
suburban mansion with a parlor and horsehair
settee--just a house, a shelter. Perhaps a more
accurate image would be that of a campfire burning
in a cold benighted wilderness. If you want to know
what home really means, go backpacking in the
Rockies for a week. Or try living on the street. In
its essence, home isnt some fancy
middle-class pipe-dream; its one of
humanitys single greatest achievements, the
human instinct for sheltering and protecting shaped
into something much deeper: a place of safety and
freedom for being our deepest selves. Sure,
domestic life is often mundane and boring. But
its always, whether we recognize it or not,
sacred.
Our general attitude toward fatherhood, too,
appears to be in limbo these days. Most of us, it
seems, dont really believe in the old
machismo (though there are still plenty of men
trying to live that way). And yet we cant
seem to envision a good father as anything more
than a supporter or sometimes-helper, with Mom as
Coach and Dad as mere bat-boy.
A recent book called How to Dad is
advertised as helping all fathers fine-tune
the skills theyll need for parenthood--the
right way to roll a snowball, skip a rock, how to
whistle through a blade of grass or tell a
joke... I like all that stuff, believe me,
but Im uneasy about this approach.
What--these little tricks are what it means to be a
father!? Maybe back in Mayberry when Aunt Bea was
doing all the dirty work, but certainly not here,
not now. Other titles suggest a similar vision of
marginalized fatherhood, like Why My Wife Thinks
I'm an Idiot: Keeping the Baby Alive Till Your Wife
Gets Home. Even Bill Cosbys best-seller
Fatherhood, as I read it, presents the male as a
kind of half-parent, hard-working and concerned but
still basically floating around the edges. Id
never claim a man has to stay home full-time to be
a good father--but it seems to me he does have to
feel the same responsibility toward homelife that
weve always expected of women.
How would the world change if all men suddenly
took this responsibility seriously? Would Barry
Bonds show up on Good Morning America with a recipe
for tuna bisque? Would Little League fathers start
screaming when their sons souffles collapsed?
Would the Hells Angels all have little
roll-a-crib trailers behind their choppers?
Probably not. But the real changes would be, I
think, no less amazing than these, and would strike
far deeper into all our lives.
It wont be easy; it cant be. And I
dont claim to be an all-knowing expert.
Consider the following incident (which also
explains, by the way, why Im calling my
daughter Shilly-Shally).
One morning before my wife left for work, she
suggested (in that leaning-on-me-hard
kind of way) that I make our daughter a
grilled-cheese sandwich for lunch. I wasnt
sure Shilly-Shally, four years old at the time,
would eat grilled-cheese; shed been fussy all
morning. But I dutifully asked her--and yes, she
did want one! Her enthusiasm knew no bounds. And
lo, she even stopped fussing--but only long enough
for me to get butter into the pan. Then she started
crying so loudly I thought the cops might show up.
Why was she crying, I asked? Because, she
blubbered, she was hungry. So I coaxed her into her
chair and managed to finish making the
sandwich.
When I set it in front of her, though, she
freaked. First she screamed that shed never
wanted it. Then she pushed it off her plate with
profound disgustyoud think Id
offered her a dead rat. She then started pounding
the innocent sandwich into the table with the flat
of her hand, to the rhythm of
I--DONT--WANT--GRILLED--CHEESE!
I--DONT--WANT--ANYTHING!!
I had to send her to her room, of course (the
fourth time that morning)--and all my later efforts
to comfort her, read to her, play with her were to
no avail. After half an hour or so she finally
calmed down (which I correctly predicted would mean
five used tissues stuffed carefully back into the
kleenex box in her bedroom).
During that half hour, though, I faced a vexing
dilemma. At first Id been ready to throw the
offending sandwich right out the front door; I
hated this disruptive, war-mongering sandwich. But
I couldnt bear to throw it away--because that
would mean all the trouble I took to make it was
suddenly rendered useless. Which was something I
just couldnt stomach. But I could stomach a
grilled-cheese sandwich--even if itd been
pounded flat and was probably soaked with bitter
tears. What the hell, I thought--it still smelled
good. And after all, were talking melted
cheese here. So I ate it. Nicest thing to happen
that whole morning.
Later my darling came down from her room all
red-eyed but smiling weakly. I found myself
thinking in a prayerful way, Maybe the tizz is
over! It could be a good day after all!
Rookie naivete! My daughter had a request.
Smiling wanly, she said in a quiet voice, I
want my grilled-cheese sandwich now.
You...want your sandwich!? I
sputtered. But you said...!
With amazing speed, her voice leapt from normal
speaking level to full-blown scream:
I--WANT--MY--GRILLED--CHEESE--SANDWICH!...
The point here is that theres no ready
formula to help you deal with such things. My
family was preparing for a cross-country move;
Shilly-Shally was deeply stressed, as only a kid
living partly out of boxes and dreading a major
life-change can be. There wasnt much I could
do except be patient--and even with all my
experience, I still made the stupid mistake of
eating something she might eventually want. But
its all part of the challenge, the craziness,
and the happiness of family life, which is, after
all, only a bit less frenzied and dangerous than
bull-riding.
Thats why this book isnt a
manual with neatly alphabetized
instructions on how to do this, that, or the other.
Being domestically involved isnt a
step-by-step process like bicycle repair or
learning to type. Its much more about who you
are as a person and what you truly value, a
bout that kind of growth--and it has far more to
do with attitude than with skills. As poet and
writer Wendell Berry says, It may be that
when we no longer know what to do, we have come to
our real work, and when we no longer know which way
to go, we have journey.
So good luck, brother. This is your real work.
If youre just starting out, stay cool and
stick with it; youll do fine. If youre
already in it, maybe you can do better. Hope I can
help.
ANSWERS TO DOMESTIC VOCABULARY QUIZ
1. board book--picture-book for very young kids,
made of heavy laminated cardboard to withstand
being mouthed by child. IMPORTANCE: This is what
your infant will chew on--and spit up on--for
months. Cleaning wet spit-up unpleasant, but
scraping the dried form off pages even more so.
2. fabric softener--those gauzy little sheets
you put in the drier to make clothes soft and less
static-y. IMPORTANCE: Dont forget, or your
kid will whine all day that her Esmerelda the Gypsy
sweatshirt is scratchy!
3. a double ender-- Isabel
Averys term for when a kid has vomiting and
diarrhea simultaneously, a body-storm so violent it
will consume a closetful of bed linen (including,
of course, that on your own bed) in a matter of
hours. And every kid gets to this point at one time
or another. IMPORTANCE: Not to be confused with a
double-header," since thats good and
this is very, very bad. Youll be up all
night. And believe me, thats the least of it!
(Your wife may not know this specific phrase, but
she knows the concept).
4. cubby--the little shelf-box at pre-school
where your kid keeps his lunch box, sneakers, etc.
IMPORTANCE: The place you have to check every day,
when picking kid up, for half-eaten food,
mud-encrusted shoes, used emergency-underwear, and
important notices about minor things like head
lice.
5. Pre-K--educational term for children still
too young for kindergarten, or for schooling below
the kindergarten level. IMPORTANCE:
Pre-K denotes the whole world of early
childhood--in other words, the time in your life
when youre most likely to say to childless
couples, Have you really thought about what
it means to have children?
6. DPT--One of the scheduled vaccinations your
child must receive, this one to prevent diphtheria,
pertussis and tetanus. Oh, and they wont let
em in school without it either--and you
definitely WANT them to go to school, for reasons
not limited to the educational. IMPORTANCE: You
even have to ask!? Your kids getting a
shot--is likely to freak out and scream like a
stuck pig while the nurses give you that scornful
Youve spoiled her! look. And then
she may be sick for three or four days, turning
your life into a chaos of sleeplessness,
cabin-fever, and cartoons.
7. retainer--an astoundingly expensive dental
device which federal law requires every American
child to wear for at least five years. IMPORTANCE:
The home-improvement-type guy may think
this has something to do with concrete and
split-level lawns, but no. A retainer is that
delicate little assemblage of wire and plastic
which your kid will take out and forget at the
pizza place, forcing you to wade through the
ball room and pick through the dumpster
in search of. As your wife will pointedly remind
you, You wouldnt just not search for a
thousand dollar bill, would you?
8. roseola--a reddish rash, which often
indicates rubella (German measles). IMPORTANCE: No,
this is not that good-looking waitress down at the
Mexican restaurant. Although classified as a
mild infectious disease, theres
nothing mild about the impact of a kid with
measles--particularly since most kids take the
attitude that making their parents miserable will
somehow make them feel better.
9. tippy cup--a cup with a cover and a rounded
bottom to prevent toddlers from spilling.
IMPORTANCE: A tippy cup is very helpful. That is,
if you can find the top, and if the kid hasnt
chewed the top to shreds, and if the kid
doesnt chuck the weighted cup at you--and if
you, while washing the cup, dont get
depressed thinking how, since you have a toddler,
this is the only rounded bottom youve had
your hands on in a while.
10. sippy cup--for 2- to 4-year-olds; an
ordinary cup with a cover that has protruding
suck-holes. IMPORTANCE: Youll go nuts trying
to keep these washed so your kid wont spill
juice etc. all over the house. But then shell
whine till you let her drink with the top off
(because shes such a big girl).
Might as well go get the carpet cleaner.
EXTRA CREDIT:
1. She has no tolerance for anything but
Amoxycillin, Doctor! Suprax just isnt an
option!
These are antibiotics. And kids, confound their
complexity, are sometimes allergic to stuff,
including medicine. The difference between these
two medicines, at least for Shilly-Shally, is the
healing of a major ear infection thats turned
her into a howling banshee--or adding to that a
bout of heavy vomiting. With such consequences, one
learns the vocabulary rather quickly.
2. I was getting him a roll-up when he
started chewing on the grapes in his pop-up--but
that was no reason to send him to
time-out!
The parent is bringing the kid a snack (a
fruitlike substance pressed into a sheet; very
popular with children) when the hungry kid begins
eating the life-like fruit in his
pop-up (i.e. paper
engineered) book. Since eating paper
isnt something we encourage, the parent
considers disciplining the child by depriving him
of activity, having him sit for a minute or two in
a pre-established place--but then realizes that,
because of the paper-engineerings lifelike
quality, this isnt really a punishable
offense.
Two Hours in the Life: A
Cautionary Sample
A chapter from Glad to Be Dad: A Call to
Fatherhood
The phrase easier said than done
applies with particular force to certain
activities, things like bungee jumping, sky diving,
or Formula-1 racing. Spending time at home with
kids, it turns out, falls into the same category,
and not all men are fully aware of this. Those who
think its a piece of cake are simply
ignorant; unless you have first-hand experience,
its hard to know just how
challenging this job can be.
The following, therefore, is an account of one
cold January afternoon I spent with my
four-year-old daughter Shilly-Shally (not, I
promise, her real name). It represents a more or
less typical day--well, actually about two hours.
(I considered recording a whole day but then
realized that might be too frightening). You may
think Ive selected for high drama, but I
swear I havent exaggerated, cross my heart
and hope to survive.
So remember, comrade: Whatever you may feel when
reading this, Im really giving you only a
thin slice of the pie. To get a true taste,
multiply these two hours by the ten years or so it
takes to turn a kid from a restless, curious,
whining, monkey-like, self-centered little
consumption-machine into something approximating
human character. Then come the teenage years.
1:00 p.m.--Feeling restless after a morning of
housecleaning and the thrills of making lunch, I
attempt to convince Shilly-Shally that we should
put on our snow clothes and play in the backyard.
Shes always loved to do this; in the past
its given her hours of delight. But at the
moment shes utterly forgotten her former
pleasure. I attempt to remind her. I fail.
1:05--After refusing to go outside,
Shilly-Shally lies under the dining-room table
playing with the squirrels she made out
of strips of cardboard and paper. As I continue my
attempts to convince her, she states categorically
that she hates to go out in the snow and will never
agree to do so.
1:10--I mention that the little boy next door
may go out too. Her eyes brighten. She loves to go
out and play in the snow! Will I please get her
dressed in her snowsuit?
1:15--First we argue in the kitchen about why
she cant wear a dress under snowpants. Then I
go up to her room and get her some clothes. Once I
convince her to stand still--which takes some
doing--I dress her in her socks, her boot socks,
her long underwear, her shirt and jeans, her
snowpants, her boots, her coat, her mittens, her
hat, and her scarf. Then she has to go to the
bathroom. I take off her scarf, her hat, her
mittens, her coat, her boots, her snowpants, and
her jeans.
1:20--I put back on her jeans, her snowpants,
her boots, her coat, her mittens, her hat, and her
scarf. Then I dress myself hurriedly to repeated
choruses of Come on, Dad! Im
hot!
1:25--We go outside. The little boy next door
isnt there. We discuss this. The discussion
ends with one of us crying in a loud and blubbery
fashion. I return to the house for kleenex.
1:30--The little boy next door comes out. The
tears dry on Shilly-Shallys suddenly joyous
cheeks. Then the little boy next door says
stubbornly that he doesnt want to play with
Shilly-Shally. I go back in for more kleenex.
1:35--Shilly-Shally and the little boy next door
start to play (his memory, it seems, is a lot like
hers). Im shoveling snow to make a sled ramp
for them. Shilly-Shally pretends to be the Grinch
Who Stole Christmas, roaring and saying mean things
to everyone. The little boy next door asks me if he
can be the guy from the video game Mortal Kombat. I
agree.
1:40--Theyre still playing. The little boy
next door asks me four times if he can be the guy
from Mortal Kombat. I agree each time.
I happen to cut my hand on the snow shovel.
Shilly-Shally always cries piteously when she gets
little scrapes and cuts; thinking this a perfect
teaching opportunity, I show her mine.
See? I say, Its bleeding,
but it doesnt hurt much. Just a little cut.
No big deal.
Thats right, she says.
Just a little cut.
Yes! I echo, surprised and pleased
at her maturity. Nothing to worry
about.
Thats right, she agrees.
Im not hurt. So nothing to worry
about.
1:45--Shilly-Shally and the little boy next door
have a fight. Hes upset because the Grinch
keeps screaming in his ears. I ask the Grinch to
crank it down a notch, but she refuses. I
insist--which results in my having to go back into
the house for more kleenex. I return to start
mopping-up operations on the Grinch's face. As I do
so, the little boy next door asks me three times if
he can be the guy from Mortal Kombat. I agree each
time.
1:50--The fight is not only over, but
theyve forgotten it ever occurred.
Thats because theres a new fight
now--over who gets to swing on the swing. (Even
with two feet of snow on the ground this is still
the Holy of Holies). I talk to them about sharing
and taking turns, going so far as to sing the
appropriate song from Barney. Shilly-Shally
actually refrains from crying; I consider this a
victory and a small step toward maturation. (Of
course I made sure she got the first turn; I
dont have to fetch kleenex for the little boy
next door).
1:55--While hes waiting to swing, the
little boy next door asks me five times if he can
be the guy from Mortal Kombat. I agree each
time.
2:00--I continue to shovel snow. Shilly-Shally
and the little boy next door begin to play
separately. For the little boy next door, that
means coming over to me and asking four times if he
can be the guy from Mortal Kombat. YES!
I roar, then add, Why do you keep asking me
that? His answer? He looks away for a moment
and then says, Hey, Tim--can I be the guy
from Mortal Kombat?
I quietly agree.
2:05--Shilly-Shally wants me to find her plastic
football. Its buried somewhere in the
ocean-like depths of snow that cover our sizeable
backyard. Are you sure you have to have that
plastic football? I ask her. Its
going to be really hard to find. She looks
stricken. Dad! Its my puppy!
This is true; shes lavished hours of
attention on her plastic football (though the
puppy has been pretty much on its own
in the snowy wilds since last summer). I let out a
long sigh, which she accurately translates as
Okay--Ill do it. When the little
boy next door begins to ask if he can be the guy
from Mortal Kombat, I shout YES! before
he finishes the sentence. He looks at me for a
moment. Then he laughs. I realize Ive made a
serious error; he likes this new game.
2:10--After much snow-shoveling and a lucky
guess, I fish Shilly-Shallys plastic football
up out of a snowdrift and hand it to her. Then I go
back to building the sled ramp. For all of thirty
seconds, Shilly-Shally pours motherly and canine
affection over the plastic football. Then she drops
it and says her feet are cold. Im not stupid;
I know the signs of apocalypse when I see them.
So I stop shoveling and start pulling
Shilly-Shally and the little boy next door around
on the sled. I figure this will keep them happy and
maybe even warm them up a little. Huffing like a
plow horse, I drag them back and forth, swinging
wide on the turns to make them giggle. They enjoy
this immensely. But no passion, as Yeats said, can
burn forever in so frail a lamp as man. In three
minutes theyre tired of it. As Shilly-Shally
loudly reminds me about her cold feet, I hear that
ominous note of serious displeasure in her voice.
Again, with the pride of the professional, I
attempt to forestall the inevitable. I show them
how to sled on the half-finished sled ramp.
2:15--The little boy next door remembers to ask
if he can be the guy from Mortal Kombat. Realizing
now that a shout will only make him laugh, I
quietly agree. He interprets this as permission to
ask four more times. Then Shilly-Shally falls off
the sled and does a face-plant in the snow. I go
back into the house for kleenex. (In my male
stupidity, it never occurs to me that I could just
put a wad of kleenex in my pocket and so avoid
these increasingly annoying trips back into the
house). With enormous effort and a cheerful energy
worthy of Richard Simmons, I manage to calm her
down. But a major hissy fit may be only moments
away.
2:20--Disaster strikes. After asking me five
more times if he can be the guy from Mortal Kombat,
the little boy next door manages to twist his foot
on our three-foot-high sled ramp. He starts to cry.
By the time I come back out with more kleenex (all
right, I admit itI caved), he wants to go
home. This throws the already frozen-faced and
icy-footed Shilly-Shally for a complete loop. She
desperately wants the little boy to stay out so
they can play; she also desperately wants to go in
and get warm. This emotional dilemma, like the
pressure of magma deep inside a volcano, must be
vented somewhere.
2:25--The little boy next door says goodbye, but
not before asking if, when we play tomorrow, he can
be the guy from Mortal Kombat. When she realizes he
really is going in, Shilly-Shally lets out a howl
of anguish that practically melts the snow.
THEN IM GOING IN TOO! she
half-shriekingly declares, and stomps up the porch
steps as if mortally offended.
2:30: Once were inside, I brush all the
snow off her and help her take off her hat, her
mittens, her coat, her boots, her snowpants, her
shirt, her jeans, her long underwear, and her boot
socks. Shes still upset, but at least now the
kleenex is handy. Because shes recently
stopped napping and is very tired at this time of
day--and because she always has a hard time when
the little boy next door goes in--and because she
did a face-plant in the snow--and because she
generally has strong feelings about things--and for
whatever other reasons--shes feeling bad.
Very bad. Her pretend-Grinch scowl has become the
real McCoy. (Id describe her as fit to
be tied but that would reveal some of the
inappropriate strategies flitting through my mind
at the moment). Even putting on a new dress (the
third of five that day) fails to provide her with
its usual boost. A series of demands and complaints
and a deeply furrowed little forehead indicate that
things are turning ugly. I note the storm warnings;
Ive seen before just how quickly a tropical
low can turn into a hurricane.
2:35--Full-blown flip-out occurs. Shes
screaming, weeping, refusing to do anything I ask,
shouting terrible things like I DONT
LOVE YOU!! IM NEVER PLAYING IN THE SNOW
AGAIN!! YOURE NOT A VERY GOOD FATHER!! I HATE
BARNEY!! (a child's equivalent of taking the
Lords name in vain).
I offer to play blocks with her, read her a
picture book, color, whatever she wants. I
HATE ALL THOSE THINGS! she bellows. After
many attempts to pacify her, I find myself thinking
about Hitler and Neville Chamberlain. So I tell her
firmly that if she cant stop screaming and
crying, shell have to go to her room. She
continues; I say Go to your room. She
finally complies, at approximately 50 mph and 90
decibels, but only after I approach her with the
intent of picking her up and carrying her there.
The slam of her bedroom door echoes through the
house like a sonic boom.
In the suddenly quiet kitchen I wonder: Is the
little boy next door even now asking his mom if he
can be the guy from Mortal Kombat?
2:40--I start feeling bad for Shilly-Shally.
After all, shes had a rough twenty
minutes--and she hasnt eaten for over an
hour! Deciding to be Super-Parent, I make
tea to take up to her room. A PB &
J cut into squares becomes petit-fours; I fill her
pink plastic tea kettle with apple juice. (A truly
loving father, of course, would have gone out and
bought her one of those kid-sized,
actually-motorized Malibu Barbie Fun Jeeps). Then I
carry the whole thing upstairs on a tea tray, with
napkins, pink plastic cutlery, apple slices, the
works. Shes going to love this!
Ive also made myself a cup of hot
chocolate and suddenly realize, rather wistfully,
that its the first thing Ive done for
myself since I brushed my teeth in the early
a.m.
2:45--Shilly-Shallys delighted. As we
picnic on the floor of her room, her passionate
sorrow melts into ecstasy. She wants to play the
Three Little Pigs. Shell be Penny, the
oldest, smartest pig. Im Paulie, one of her
less intelligent younger brothers come to live in
the wolf-proof house she built. This, of course,
makes her the boss. Can I really
be the boss, Dad? she asks, wanting to be
very clear about this. The question has a dangerous
ring to it. I hesitate, knowing what such a
political precedent can mean. But were still
too close to the recent crying fit to risk a
re-engagement over whats really only a
negative possibility. "Yes," I say, "You can be
boss--if I can be the guy from Mortal Kombat." She
laughs.
2:50--For the next five minutes we know sheer,
undiluted happiness. For five minutes we live just
like the parents and kids on TV commercials. I
savor it like an elixir.
2:55--The phone rings. Before I go downstairs to
answer it, I caution Shilly-Shally not to carry her
little teacup full of apple juice anywhere. With a
parents eternal vigilance against messy
spills, Ive noticed shes a little shaky
handling the cup, so I insist she stay seated if
shes going to drink from it.
I answer the phone. Luckily, its only one
of those annoying telemarketers--not someone asking
if he can be the guy from Mortal Kombat. But my
relief is shattered when I hear a cry from
upstairs.
3:00--On reaching Shilly-Shallys room I
learn that shes not only moved
her little teacup, shes spilled it--and the
entire plastic tea kettle full of apple juice.
Simian restlessness of youth! Tears well up--but I
suppress them. Of course Shilly-Shallys
crying too. When I gently remind her that she did
exactly what I asked her not to, the floodgates of
the deep are opened. I look around; naturally, the
kleenex box in her room is empty. But thats
no problem; Im on my way downstairs to get
rags and carpet cleaner anyway. The spills
shouldnt be all that tough to deal with,
since shes only soaked about 50% of the
carpet surface. Besides, my housemaids knee
has been pretty calm lately. Ill have all
this cleaned up in, say, twenty minutes or so.
But first Ive got an impromptu lesson
about not crying over spilt milk to
give, and a troubled angel to soothe--whose
happiness is, after all, one of the main reasons
for my existence on this planet.
Homelife: The Benefits
to Men
A chapter from Glad to Be Dad: A Call to
Fatherhood
Life is so short that we must move
very slowly.--Thai proverb
We know what we are, but not what we may
be.--Shakespeare
For the last three or four centuries at least,
men in our culture have generally spent most of
their waking hours outside the home. And for many
men, this has become a basic orientation; even in
those few hours when they are home, some, as their
wives and children would tell you,
arent really there.
My dad was a doctor, but, as our familys
standing joke had it, he was the last person to go
to if you were sick or hurt. "Ask your
mother, was his standard reply; he
wouldnt even brush you off with a band-aid or
the traditional aspirin. And he certainly
didnt want you to call him in the morning.
Some guys seem to think of their homes as a place
to crash and recover, like a motel along the
interstate.
As an experienced parent and all-around
hard-working guy, I can understand my dads
response, especially since my wife and I have our
hands full with three kids, while he and my mom had
to deal with eleven. And as is true for many of the
old-fashioned providers, my father
worked himself like a draft animal. Im
passionately grateful for all the things he
provided for us. But when he was home, he rested,
and Im sure he wasnt the only man to
set up Ask your mother as a buffer
between himself and domestic demands.
There were a couple of problems with this,
though, however understandable it might be. For one
thing, my mom never had any time off. Period. When
he was resting, she was still working.
Then theres the fact that we didnt
see Dad very often, or do things with him, or even
talk to him much. I didnt really get to know
him until I was an adult. In the love and
friendship I now feel for him, and in the sadness
for all we missed in those earlier years, Ive
learned how profoundly a father is rewarded for
things like putting band-aids on his children.
The old habits of the distant, workhorse father
die hard. The good news, though, is that there are
plenty of reasons for us to spend more time at home
and be more fully engaged when were
there.
If you ask the average guy to list some
benefits, though, he may draw a blank. Men are
changing, of course, even as we speak. But the
typical male, it seems, still has something of a
gap in his thinking when it comes to home life, a
nearly empty space somewhere between preoccupation
with sex and a free-floating devotion to
professional sports teams.
From my point of view, at least, this is
somewhat surprising. You might think the men it
applies to would be a little embarrassed. A guy
whos uneasy admitting he doesnt know
what channel-locks do may blithely declare his
ignorance about toddlers or basic house-cleaning.
And considering the intense nature of family
experience, you have to wonder how certain fathers
actually avoid at least some domestic awareness.
Because Ive stayed home with all three of my
kids, domestic life has become an essential part of
who I am, deepening and strengthening me in ways I
couldnt have imagined. I am, in part, what
being home with my children has taught me to
become. And you dont have to be a
stay-at-home father, of course, in order to reap
these benefits.
I learned of one such benefit in an issue of
Working Mother magazine, which gave the results of
a University of Nebraska study on supportive
husbands. The researchers looked at over 2,000
married people, concluding, the article reports,
that [h]usbands who are supportive of
their wives careers and share in household
chores are happier with their marriages than other
men... Non-supportive males, in contrast,
tend to feel threatened and resist change,
which causes more stress in the marriage. It
only makes sense, I think, that men who give more
to marriage actually get more from it, in that old
and sacred paradox whereby in giving we
receive.
Another benefit springs immediately to mind: the
practical education home life can provide for a
male, an antidote to that learned helplessness many
men acquire when it comes to this most basic part
of living. (Just how bad can we guys get? When I
read a draft of this chapter to a small group, one
woman sputtered with surprise and burst out I
didnt know any men even knew how helpless you
all are!)
Of course its true that some guys learn,
as bachelors, how to manage their own domestic
affairs. But the independence of bachelorhood is no
guarantee that a man has learned basic domestic
skills and attitudes. For one thing, a bachelor
only takes care of himself, which is a far cry from
caring for a family; bachelors are notorious, of
course, for going into marriage with entrenched
self-centered habits.
Besides, the bachelors approach to
domestic life is often crude, to put it mildly.
Plenty of my college dorm-mates, for example, took
a less than labor-intensive approach to their
laundry. A guy would wear his clothes until they
were simply unwearable, then throw them on his
closet floor and choose something else. In this
spirit of homage to Huck Finn, hed go through
his wardrobe piece by piece. By the end of the
semester youd see him wearing slacks, dress
shirts and sports coats, both to class and to
parties and bars--not because he wanted to look
formal but because those were the only clean
clothes he had left. When even his dress clothes
were filthy, hed push the whole moldy,
odorous pile into his laundry bag and take it home
to Mom--or give it to his girlfriend, if their
relationship had reached that romantic point.
A divorced friend of mine, in his forties, used
the same strategy for doing dishes.
Whatever he used hed stack in the sink,
washing all his cups, glasses, plates and cutlery
in one great burst when nothing clean was left. On
Friday nights you could usually find him eating
with a spatula off one of those ribbed microwave
trays.
But not only do men tend to be domestically
ignorant to begin with--some of us duck even more
of our responsibility by depending on women to take
up the slack. This is a dependence many mothers
actually encourage in their sons! Its true,
of course, that young males can be stubborn and
mindless when it comes to helping around the house.
But when frazzled parent enables
stubborn and lazy kid, the process of training a
helpless male adult has begun. Memories of my own
adolescence make me hot with embarrassment. One
scene sums up just how out to lunch I was.
Now, Tim," my mom told me seriously one day,
I need you to do something for me. I need a
package of frozen hamburger. Go downstairs. Open
the big freezer. Just to your left will be a wire
basket. The frozen hamburger is not in the basket,
its under it. Not in, but under. So lift the
basket out. Right below youll see a package.
Dont get me anything but ground beef.
Thats ground beef. Okay?
Sure! I said cheerfully, then
tromped downstairs, opened the freezer, and
stopped. Mom? I called up tentatively.
...Uh...what did you want?
Most wives will have their own anecdotes to add
here, some more far-fetched and dramatic, most less
so. But even the little things can build up, and a
pattern of continual domestic ignorance is not only
bad for the marriage but also for the man himself.
That typical Honey-where-do-we-keep-the...?
dependency can lead to resentment in both partners,
since she feels put upon and he feels inadequate
and humiliated. (Im still fighting the
problem, in fact. Once you contract this disease,
theres no cure, really--you can only manage
it). And this kind of learned helplessness takes
larger and more general forms too; far too many
men, it seems, actually reach an almost total
dependence on their wives for everything from meals
to emotional expression.
Men, I think, should acknowledge their often
hidden embarrassment about this and let it guide
them to new skills. And if by some chance a guy
doesnt feel embarrassed about being a
domestic ignoramusmaybe he should learn how
to.
Our society values the well-rounded individual.
But well-roundedness should include
domestic as well as other abilities. Many times,
after admitting that I dont change my own
oil, Ive had to endure an auto
mechanics look of scornful surprise; why is
it, I wonder, that men dont feel the same
about sewing on buttons? I have a kind of
typical-male belief that I wont really be
well-rounded until I can do things like sail a boat
or attempt simple carpentry. Such skills, which I
dont possess, strike me as basic abilities
everyone would do well to have. In my life, though,
there arent many occasions when I need to
cross large bodies of water or build huts. But a
man is usually home with his kids on a daily basis;
its many a recklessly yanked-on button
Ive seen go flying. Running a house and
caring for children are fundamental life skills;
how can a man justify not knowing anything about
them?!
And all we have to do to break the cycle of
dependence is get in there and learn. For fifteen
years I helped my wife with our grocery
shopping, week in and week out. Wheres
the pizza sauce? Id ask her. What
aisle is Pop Tarts? It was only when she
became ill for three months that I finally learned
the layout of the store--simply because I had to do
the shopping myself. Thats all it took.
And what advantages a little domestic knowledge
can bring to a guy! Like any skills, these engender
a certain pride and personal satisfaction,
expanding both our knowledge of human experience
and of ourselves. They can help bring husbands and
wives together. They can also lead to the kind of
anchoring humility everyone needs.
Besides, being able to take care of something
yourself is a hundred times more convenient than
always depending on her.
A second general benefit is that time at home
allows a man, in psychologist Herb Goldbergs
phrase, to step out of harness--to
escape, however long, from the narrowness of the
male-achiever role. In the high-pressure world of
the working male, emotional expression is often
frowned on, achievement at any cost is championed,
and a man is judged by his earning power, his
social or sexual dominance, and his material
wealth, often denying his own genuine desires and
frustrations. Wordsworth said it perfectly, I
think: Getting and spending we lay waste our
powers.
In The Hazards of Being Male, Goldberg
lays out with great force and clarity just what
rigid male sex roles have cost the many patients he
worked with as a therapist. (Dr. William Pollack of
Harvard has even more up-to-date and research-based
things to say about this same problem). The
male..., Goldberg writes, is out of
touch with his emotions and his body...Our culture
is saturated with successful male
zombies...[who] have confused their social
masks for their essence...Only a new way of
perceiving himself can unlock [a man] from
old, destructive patterns and enrich his
life. This isn't true about all guys, of
course. But for those to whom it applies, I say:
Fess up, at least to yourself. We should
acknowledge our hidden slaveries, our hang-up's,
the deep hurts and false assumptions that can so
terribly limit us.
Time at home is a precious opportunity to live
in exactly the opposite way. The work-horse can
step back, take a breath, begin to savor his life.
All those stereotypical behaviors of male mid-life
crisis--pursuing sex, living in the fast lane,
preening to recapture lost youth--are shallow and
bound to fail, since theyre only the
reward behaviors of the man in harness.
But a man can learn to remake himself, to awaken
things within him, if he lets quieter, stronger
things begin to grow. Many men Ive talked to,
on hearing that I stay home with my kids, have
expressed wistful envy for my position. Man,
what I wouldnt give... theyll
say, looking off into the distance. Perhaps
theyre naive about the difficulties of
full-time fathering; perhaps not. But many would
clearly love a break from the type of work-life
that stifles some of their humanity. I kind
of like, at this point, a father from New
Jersey says, any occupation that isnt
full of politics, stress, white shirt/ties, and
joining the good-old-boy network. Similarly,
in the blue-collar and service sectors, heavy
demands from above, monotony, struggles with
co-workers or bosses, or the constant feeling of
being expendable can lead to the same strong desire
for escape--and not just to kick back and take it
easy, but to take stock.
Many men, Goldberg says, discover that
they are shadows to themselves as well as to
others. But one of the most powerful ways for
men to step out of this shadow-life, this practiced
grief, is right under their noses. In their own
homes, with their own children, men can move toward
becoming the full selves many are struggling to
be.
And another advantage flows from this pausing to
catch your breath: the small magic of just slowing
down.
I often use clouds as a gauge of my own
life-speed. Sometimes people have to hurry, and
hurrying isnt necessarily bad in itself; it
can even be enjoyable. But on every side I hear
complaints about the frantic pace of modern life.
Its clear that many of us, at least, are
overdoing it. Clouds arent like that. They
flow across the sky at their own Tao-like pace,
steady and rhythmic, usually so unhurried we must
consciously slow ourselves even to notice their
movement. Sometimes I stop in the middle of a busy
day and just watch. If slowing myself to their
pace, to the pace of the natural world, the rhythm
of wind and water and the deep slow life of the
land--if doing this frustrates me too much, and I
want to break away before Ive really seen the
perfect motion of the clouds--then I know Im
living too fast. But not necessarily in terms of
physical speed; clouds tell me Im going too
fast on the inside. Its usually our inner
velocity, more than our outer, which drives us too
hard.
But still, were only human, and our bodies
dictate much of our interior life. Since many jobs
include high stress and pressure, we often respond
by internalizing that endless anxious race to get
things done. Being home is different. I dont
mean that its paradise, that you wont
be busy, pressured, or frustrated. But the overall
pace, and the nature of many of your new tasks,
will begin to slow you down.
As a Thai proverb has it, Life is so short
that we must move very slowly. An
Americans first reaction to this statement is
likely to be confusion; if life is short,
shouldnt we go faster, to experience more?
No, Thai wisdom tells us. You must learn instead to
fully savor what you do. This aspect of being home
with children provides another precious opportunity
for men, especially since some of us live in an
unnatural fear of idleness, having been taught to
be relentless engines of achievement. Time with
kids isnt idleness by any
definition, but it does impose a more organic kind
of life-rhythm on a parent. And the childs
life-rhythm will do even more to shake you out of a
rigid attitude toward time--that is, if you let
it.
Life at home will always be challenging in its
own way. But there will always be those other times
too: Shilly-Shally and I lying on our backs in the
grass, talking quietly or just drinking in the
silence, watching clouds (and for once I dont
have to check if Im patient enough). Me
holding her, pressing my face into her fragrant
hair with its little-girl smells. And here I am on
hands and knees picking up strands of plastic
Easter grass, because she had to have her Easter
basket from the attic, since Belle from
Disneys Beauty and the Beast carries a basket
in some scene
but suddenly she jumps down
without a word, leaving her snack at the table, and
begins to search the rug carefully, snatching at
stray pieces of plastic grass and carrying them to
the trash, both of us laughing when she cant
get the sticky grass off her fingers. Or shes
standing in the backyard at twilight, gazing at the
evening star, when the automatic sprinklers
suddenly come on, and she screams--the closest
sprinkler thirty feet away from her--and I come
running, pick her up, within seconds shes
smiling, wiping tears away and telling me, with big
solemn eyes, the story of the startling
sprinklers...
The truth is that, at home, such beautiful
little miraculous times happen far more often than
the maddening disasters do. And this leads to
another profound benefit. Being home with a child
is a magnificent opportunity for adults to
reconnect themselves to a whole set of abilities we
seem to leave behind in childhood. Emerson says
bluntly that most adults take on a kind of
blindness: To speak truly, few adult persons
can see nature. Most persons do not see the
sun. A fundamental ability to look at the
world with wonder, to really see whats before
us, lies sleeping through many peoples lives,
a distant memory theyve all but forgotten.
Thats one reason most of us treasure certain
childhood remembrances; it seems a golden time not
so much because things were so perfect, but because
we had an orientation to existence that allowed us
to see the world that way. This
orientation--without the sometimes frustrating
limitations of our childish minds--is still
available to adults. Its what haiku poetry is
based on, and is in fact the aim of much art and
spirituality--a re-establishing of direct
connection to experience.
And what a banquet of direct
experience being home can set before you!
With your childs behavior as a model, a kind
of lens to peer through--and beyond the frantic
pressures or numbing boredom of much of the work
world--you can set about really looking at things,
really tasting food, smelling smells, hearing
sounds. With time enough, and your own
willingness--and with the continual example of your
childs wonder-driven heart--you can actually
re-learn how to be a human animal in the sensual
flow of the natural world. You might even discover
again how to see the sun.
But not all the benefits of staying home are so
philosophical. A while ago, having called our HMO
to see a doctor, I was sitting there, phone on my
shoulder, putting in the apparently mandatory
half-hour it takes to make an appointment. As I
waited, I found myself half-listening to the
disembodied recorded voice on the other end
reciting health tips. But I perked up when it
started to talk about laughter and health.
Children, the voice intoned mechanically, laugh 400
times a day--while adults only manage 15.
Now youve got to wonder how they counted
this; I picture some labcoat following a kid around
and marking a clipboard, then doing the same with a
tax accountant. Still, we all know kids laugh a lot
more than adults do, and we hear more and more
these days about the health benefits of laughter
and a positive attitude. Being home with children
is a natural way to bring more laughter into your
life. For one thing, kids love comedy as much as
they love candy, if not more, and any parent who
doesnt use it, both to teach and to control,
is wasting a precious resource. Your children are
the perfect captive audience, eager, interested,
and always there. In addition, the slower, warmer
atmosphere of home life naturally allows more
laughter. For although humor is essentially a
spontaneous phenomenon, it occurs more often in
certain environments--and it can be pursued. And
those who pursue it are happier than those who
dont.
So how to pursue it? You open yourself, you
value it, you consider its preciousness, you
practice it, you embrace it whenever you can, you
consciously look for it in everyday situations.
I was complaining to some friends once about a
big gash Id gotten on my shin. In that
typical trials of parenthood mode, I
launched into the story of how, to calm a sleepless
Shilly-Shally, Id slept on a futon on her
bedroom floor (on a different night from last
chapters story)--had woken in the wee hours
with a terrible backache--had crept down to the
living-room couch so I wouldn't wake my wife,
setting my alarm on the coffee table--and then,
when it went off, had jumped up in a stupor not
remembering where I was, banging my leg on the
table in a frantic effort to hit the button.
But as I told the story, I found myself, in
characteristic Irish fashion, I suppose, warming to
it, gradually realizing the humor it afforded. By
the end of the little narrative my friends and I
were laughing, and Id come to see the
nights events in a whole new light.
Thats when I suddenly thought about my
dad.
Its from him, and from my mom, that I
first learned the profound and simple art of
enjoying life as it happens; his status as a
workhorse didnt keep him from that crucial
ability. I found myself remembering the night Dad
recounted to us, with utter delight, how hed
put his necktie on over his shirt collar before
6:30 Mass that morning--and then had gone blithely
through his day, confused by all the strange
reactions until someone finally took him aside.
This certainly wasnt high comedy; there was
no punch line or hilarious climax. Its just
that he got such a kick out of it, out of the
little incongruities of being human, and saw so
instinctively--as he almost always did--the funny
side of things.
Its easy to underestimate the power of
this approach to life, this instinct for humor in
ordinary experience--which constitutes, in fact, a
kind of wordless faith in our daily existence. Of
course there are things too horrible ever to be
laughed about. But in most cases, finding humor is
to humans what agility is to cats. People who know
how to do it tend to land on their feet. And being
home with children is an ideal opportunity to
develop this skill.
Besides, kids are funny--sometimes when they try
to be, more often just by virtue of who they are.
Some examples:
--Shilly-Shally has named her index fingers.
Stinkypan and Lady-o are a
pair of giraffes who constantly bicker and insult
each other, acting out Shilly-Shallys
negative impulses. The other day they actually
attacked her, pulling repeatedly at her braids and
calling her ugly names. It was better than pro
wrestling.
--When my older son was little, I showed him a
map of the Milky Way. This is our
galaxy! I said, and this is our
sun--one of billions of suns! And somewhere close
to the sun is our planet, the Earth! Hey,
Dad! he exclaimed, caught up in my
excitement. I can see our house!
--My wife was explaining delicately to our
younger son, in answer to his earnest question, how
human flatulence can sometimes help doctors make
diagnoses. You know, she said, plainly
embarrassed, the
frequency,
and...uh...odor... Our little boy looked up
at her with big serious eyes. Does it mean
anything if its...loud?
--To explain the seasons to the boys when they
asked about them, I got out an orange and a
ping-pong ball. This orange is the sun,
I told them, and this ping-pong ball is the
Earth. The Earth revolves around the
sun--here I moved my models, delighted to see
the boys entranced, their wide eyes fixed on my
substitute sun. Now--can you see how it
goes? I asked proudly, convinced Id
given them the gift of wonder. For a moment they
were silent. Then the younger asked brightly,
Dad--can I have that orange?
And its not just the outright humor that
can lift and re-direct you, but also the sheer
zaniness. Living with kids is like running a kind
of asylum for very sweet patients--but patients
nonetheless. Things are different in a house with
children. Shilly-Shallys bathtub, for
example, is often full of balloons, even during the
daytime. She loves balloons (which are among the
most commanding passions of the pre-K set),
endlessly demands them, and delights in filling her
bathtub with them. I walk past the bathroom and
notice a rainbow-like profusion in the tub, and
part of me wants to do that parent thing and PUT
THOSE TOYS AWAY. Its like an itch I
cant ignore. I want order, I want control,
those balloons are bugging me, all huddled up
together in there like a little group of escaped
cartoon creatures.
But then I stop and think. Balloons! Hell, I
love balloons too! It dawns on me that Im
lucky to have a tub full of balloons to walk past
each day, a reminder of what the world can be, the
strange delights our lives present to us. Im
lucky that someone keeps trying to tell me, in the
language of balloons, how to loosen up a little
about controlling the house, how to let it be a
place where life isnt merely organized but
actually happens--how to let delight rise up out of
the world even as I impose order from above.
In all of this I keep seeing a beautiful light
in things, one I only glimpsed before I spent
serious time with my children. Humor is much more
than a moment of relief, a physical release,
belly-laugh and then back to the grindstone.
Garrison Keillor knows it for what it really
is:
Humor is not a trick, not jokes. Humor is
a presence in the world--like grace--and shines on
everybody.
Keillor put this truth into words for me. But in
fact Id learned it long before, wordlessly,
from Shilly-Shally, and from her brothers before
her, and from my own parents and siblings before
that.
Of all the benefits of spending time at home,
the next is, I think, the most obvious: Its
the only way to really know your kids. We live in
an age when the absent father (in the many forms
such absence takes) seems to be crippling whole
swaths of our society. How many fathers, I wonder,
have secretly gotten teary-eyed or come close to
it, sitting alone in their cars as Harry
Chapins Cats in the Cradle
played on the radio? The irony of this has struck
me many times: We plod on as a society, with
fathers in so many families all but separated from
their children, men at work or on the road or
living in other cities or locked away behind the
fortress of a newspaper--but they hear this song,
we all listen. We know its true: Kids grow so
fast, but were too busy. We keep putting off
our plans to spend time with them, we keep running,
and then one day theyre gone and theres
no real connection, no strength of love and shared
experience, only a skeletal version of what family
life should be. But the system goes on as it always
has, the disk jockeys keep playing that song--and
moments of tenderness that should be shared by
fathers and children actually take place in cars or
offices or hotel rooms where men, alone, sit and
wonder who their children are.
How can it be that we let ourselves drift from
the center of our lives out to the edges, and then
spend most of our time there? How can the family,
the human grouping most essential to all of us,
become just one more item on our to-do lists?
In America you raise your children; in India
we live with ours, an East Indian once said.
His statement strikes me as an over-generalization,
but theres certainly some truth in it as a
description of much American family life.
In the time you spend at home you get to know
your kids on a whole new level. And this knowledge
will run much deeper than a mental catalogue of
favorite colors and who likes what for lunch. No
human being, in fact, not even a spouse, can know
another as intimately as parent knows child. This
will not only make you a much better
parent--itll also make you happier. And if
you really know your children, maybe you wont
find yourself sitting in the car one day wondering
if your life has any center, awash with sorrow and
guilt as youre transfixed by Harry Chapin's
words about a father who watches his own life pass
without ever spending real time with his son.
For some men, in fact, time at home with
children will be part of a necessary education in
learning to love. Some simply havent learned
how, and some love deeply but cant express
it. Others feel love but dont channel it into
responsible and nurturing action. Whatever his own
background, a man wont find better teachers
in the art of loving than his own children. By
their very nature they demand, beg for, insist on,
may wither without his love. And he too may wither,
may already be withering, until he learns to give
that love freely, until he grows to that point
where giving is as joyous as getting.
You dont think youve got a
feminine side? Dont think you can
handle that much homelife? Hey, cast your mind
back: You didnt like the taste of beer the
first time either, and now look at you. Contrary to
prevailing stereotypes, men are adaptable.
In The Tunnel of Love, Peter de Vries says
The value of marriage is not that adults
produce children, but that children produce
adults. Although some marriages are an
exception, in most cases a man can learn all this
at home. The love in him can be more than a mere
aching dependency, or dark need, or mute cry buried
in the self. His love can blossom out into the
world, an overflowing that enriches his own life,
the life of his family, even his community.
And another thing. Most males are what you might
call recreation-oriented. We like to
play. Guys hang little basketball hoops in their
bedrooms and offices and shoot sponge basketballs
at them. We stack beer cans, throw snowballs, lay
bets on who can catch the most peanuts out of the
air in his mouth. We tend to make games out of
almost any activity. So what does being home have
to do with this basic masculine urge? Simple: If a
guys willing to get down on his hands and
knees, hell find that a kid is the greatest
interactive toy ever invented.
One final point, which Ive hinted at
throughout this chapter. There are plenty of
reasons for men to be committed fathers. Some,
though, are easier to grasp than others,
particularly since certain truths can only be fully
understood through experience. How could an adult,
for example, fully explain sexual love to a child?
Since this experience is outside the childs
conscious awareness, any description is inadequate.
To a child it may sound silly, even crazy (I
recently saw a kids Letter to God
that read, My brother told me where babies
come frombut it doesnt sound
right). Most likely, though, the kid simply
wont relate to it, with boredom or
indifference as the result. And yet some day this
same child, now something more than a child, will
find these longings stirring in his or her own
body, and the human birthright of sexual love will
become central to that life. Sometimes telling men
about the advantages of home-life is similar.
To learn these deeper truths, men must be
willing to let things happen to them--things they
may not understand yet. Why should a man truly
commit himself to fatherhood? A final, and
profound, reason: to find himself.
Im not lost, you say; I know where I am,
who I am. And maybe you really do know some of who
you are. But how completely do you know yourself?
How fully have you expressed your potential,
explored all your capabilities, felt all your
inherent feelings? How freely have you fulfilled
all the roles in your nature?
Im at the computer working, hurrying,
concentrating on the task before me. Im a
provider, a do-er, an adult, I have plans,
ambitions, I move from point A to point B. Just
then Shilly-Shally quietly opens the door, having
woken from her (always brief) afternoon nap. Then
she comes to me quickly, climbs onto my lap, and I
hold her--and the suddenness with which shes
come into my arms is like the suddenness with which
she came into our lives. This jars me from my
narrow-minded focus, lifts me instantly past it,
and Im filled with astonishment: This child,
this human being, having come out of nowhere, out
of the depths of space, non-existent but now here,
warm, on my lap, those little-girl smells in her
hair--I marvel wordlessly at her, and passionately
thank the powers that brought her to us.
In that moment Im not anything else but
someone who loves her completely. Im a
father, just that, feeling nothing extraneous,
nothing shallow or transitory, nothing that
isnt true to the depths of my being. There in
the midafternoon light, with the computer still on
before me (soon to be reluctantly shut down for the
day)--with the silence in the house about to be
hurled away, with hours of dish-washing,
laundry-folding, table-setting, crayon-wielding,
block-building, picture-book-reading and
storytelling ahead of me----with her in my arms, I
realize, surprised, that Im most who I am--my
deepest, truest self.
So You Think Its
Easy?
A chapter from Glad to Be Dad: A Call to
Fatherhood
Experience is what you get when you
dont get what you want.--Dan Stanford
"A model dad demonstrates [that] time is
love."--Shana McLean Moore
One of my brothers was married a few years ago,
and soon his wife was pregnant--with twins.
Although I rejoiced with them, I was also a
little concerned. I know what it takes to raise a
kid--and I can multiply by two. In some cultures
twins are considered good luck, an indication of
divine favor. But Ill bet a whole pile of
cowrie shells the men believe this more than the
women do. My brother married after a long
bachelorhood; did he really understand what was
coming down the pike?
For the first six months after the birth of his
daughters, hed always say things were fine.
Two wasnt really twice as much, since you
already had a system going. I knew he was becoming
a terrific father, but I wondered about the fatigue
factor, which is even more important in parenting
than in sports. I couldnt help thinking about
the Bear.
If youve ever run track, you probably know
about the Bear. I heard it from the older guys on
our high-school team. Its like
this, theyd say. Youre
doing a quarter-mile or whatever, and youre
kicking hard for the finish--youre right
about there...--theyd point to a spot
three-fourths of the way around the
track--
when all of a sudden the Bear
comes up out of the ground and jumps on you. Your
legs turn to lead, you cant breathe, you get
dizzy--the finish line suddenly looks a hundred
miles away...
The Bear, of course, is that
phenomenon whereby a runner making maximum exertion
suddenly feels exhausted. Young runners nod when
they hear about it, but they dont really
understand. Just listen to them, though, once that
beast sinks his claws into their backs. Oh man! I
was starting my kick and all of a sudden...
I wondered if something similar was in store for
my brother.
Then one day he called me, sounding a little
down in the dumps. The twins had just turned eleven
months. Hows it going? I
asked.
Well, okay, he said, the weariness
plain in his voice. Its
just...well...its pretty
constant...
Bingo, I thought; the Bear claims another
victim.
Like any worthy labor, spending time with your
kids can be exhausting, frustrating, and downright
tedious. It is, as my wife says, both overwhelming
and underwhelming at the same time. In addition,
and in contrast to most jobs, this one is grossly
unrewarded in terms of money and status, with the
extra wild irony that some people dont even
consider it work!
Most mothers, of course, know all about such
ironies. But some men dont realize just how
brave theyll have to be in this new world.
The level of difficulty, of course, depends on your
individual circumstances. But a man needs to go
into this with his eyes wide open--and his heart.
How hard can it be, you wonder? Youll find
out.
For starters, try this little readiness quiz.
Its designed to enhance mental preparation
for the new father. All the examples are taken from
real lifeI kid you not. Answer each question
yes or no. And be
honest.
DOMESTIC READINESS QUIZ
1. Your toddler is, as your wife tells the
neighbor, not such a good sleeper. Once
hes weaned he stays up till 11:00 or 12:00 at
night for about six months, waking at 5:30 each
morning, and often during the night. Youre
seriously sleep-deprived and beginning to
hallucinate; your boss has begun to look
sympathetic and kindly. Even the bags under your
eyes are getting bags. Finally the kid cycles
around to a normal bedtime. You enjoy the luxury of
a weeks worth of semi-adequate sleep.
Then Daylight Savings Time kicks in, and
hes right back to midnight.
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS!?
2. This same kid, a little older now and the
worlds lightest sleeper, has just settled
down for a nap, and you desperately need the break.
Once hes asleep, you get ready to tiptoe out
of his room--but like a fool you cant resist
putting a few toys away first. With little plastic
tractor and farm animals in hand, you creep to the
toy barn where theyre kept--but youve
already opened the barn door before you remember it
moos. Your kid sits bolt upright.
Im done with my nap, Dad. Can I play
farm too?
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS!?
3. You have a guest for dinner, an important guy
who works with your wife. Hes an older
bachelor. In the middle of dinner, a number of
things happen at once: The phone rings and your
older son goes to answer it--the doorbell rings and
your younger son takes care of that--the timer goes
off in the kitchen and your wife jumps up to check
the dessert--and you rush upstairs, having heard a
thump and the unmistakable shrieking of your
four-year-old. Your guest is suddenly completely
alone at the table--and in the middle of a
sentence. And once youve calmed your screamer
down, youre going to have to explain why.
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS!?
4. Its Christmas day; you want to take the
family to church. But your three-year-old NEEDS a
bath. Youve got one hour before the service
starts. Before she can get into the tub, however,
she has to move EACH of her TWELVE
cardboard-cut-out squirrels up the
stairs to the bathroom. And that means lifting each
squirrel one stairstep at a time. When
you try to hurry her, she protests.
Theyre only little animals, Dad!
Total elapsed time: thirty-three minutes.
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS!?
5. First your kids got Lite-brites,
thousands of tiny colored plastic reflectors
theyre supposed to arrange on a pegboard to
make pictures with. What they prefer, of course, is
to scatter the damn things everywhere. For years
you clean up Lite-brites. Then your wife brings
home an Indian dress for your daughter,
which is covered with beaded fringe, bits of which
are constantly falling off the dress. Soon you
cant take a step in the house without
encountering this new form of litter. Then, just
when you think youve finally vacuumed up the
last beaded fringe, Grandma comes over with a pink
feather boa for your daughter. Within hours your
living room looks like a psychedelic henhouse.
Grandma, of course, is long gone.
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS!?
6. At 1:00 youre going to a local photo
studio for a formal family photograph. Your kid
needs lunch, but youve learned that feeding
any semi-solid food to a child under five
automatically means a complete change of clothes
(for both kid and yourself). So you carefully avoid
pudding, jello, yoghurt, ice cream,
spaghetti-os, applesauce, peanut butter and
jelly, mashed potatoes, canned fruit in juice,
cereal in milk, etc. But you learn rather quickly
that some foods normally considered
solids--like graham crackers--can
easily cross into the semi-solid category. Lunch is
over, your kid looks like a pig after a good
wallow, and the clock now reads 12: 34.
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS!?
7. You've been working your tail off all day for
your kid, doing cosmically-important things like
finding lost coloring books, trying to wash off a
fairy-tale DVD so the picture won't keep hanging
and pixelating, and hooking up the back of her
doll's incredibly tiny dress. You're right in the
middle of some similarly devilish task, and pulling
it off beautifully, when you wife comes in from
work. Your kid looks up and instantly bellows,
"Mom, will you come here and do this better than
Dad?!"
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS!?
SCORING: If you finished this quiz without
serious thoughts of abandoning your family,
youve passed. If, however, you answered
No to four or more questions, you
should probably stick with your current method of
birth control.
Spending more time at home inevitably presents a
number of specific problems. Its not easy on
a number of fronts.
Some of these problems, of course, are practical
difficulties whose major impact is on your life as
an adult. Your career, obviously, will be affected
(like a telephone pole is affected when a car rams
into it; can the pole take the shock, or is it
coming down?). This is unavoidable; even if men
suddenly had years worth of legal paternity leave,
a committed father is still taking himself out of
the loop to some degree. For some, this is just a
bump in the road; for others, it can lead to
serious frustration, even bitterness.
Every man has to make such decisions for
himself. But there are a few clear principles here.
The first is that well-known one about people on
their deathbeds not wishing theyd spent more
time at the office. The second is that you have to
make up your mind and stick with your choices, even
when things get rough. To me its simple,
though difficult: Love is more important than
anything else. My family needs me, and I simply
wont let my career aspirations keep me from
being a happy and loving father and husband. I have
my frustrations, but the compass of my heart keeps
me pointed in the right direction.
A second disadvantage is the financial drain of
lost salary, resulting either from a mans
giving up a job (or a better job), or from not
putting in the longer hours often required for
promotion and higher salary. Some couples work
around this; you can certainly save money on
childcare. But its no road to riches. My
family continues to struggle; our Tupperware
collection, to use one small example,
consists mainly of old whipped-cream and margarine
tubs. Eating fast food is about as high-toned as
our celebrations get. We rent; we have no savings;
we worry. But we make do.
These problems arise, obviously, because your
family commitments keep you from devoting all your
time and energy to your job. Most men can easily
imagine that kind of frustration. But being with
kids also has its own unique difficulties, which
some guys seem to have no real sense of.
The biggest shock to the uninitiated, I think,
is the endlessness of this job (as my brother
recently learned firsthand). Even long hours at a
day job cant really prepare you for being
on whenever youre with your kids,
or, for the stay-at-home dad, 24/7. And if you
think that means time off for meals and sleep,
think again. There are kids who sleep all night and
take long naps, but there are others who almost
never sleep--and even the good sleepers need less
as they grow older. Besides, few kids have the
moral decency to match their sleep schedule to
yours. And your kids will soon teach you what
mealtime really means: While theyre at the
table, you spend your time either serving them or
watching to make sure they don't indulge in those
creative disasters they're so good at. And once
they finish, youre still eating, and stuck in
one place so they can easily find you to present
requests, demands, complaints, and passionate
dessert preferences.
Almost nothing in domestic life is ever truly
finished. A New Jersey stay-at-home dad says that
trying to clean with two children in the
house is like trying to empty a bathtub
with a
sieve. The basic rule? If your kids are
awake, the house is getting dirtier by the minute.
Children relentlessly seek attention,
entertainment, and animal satisfaction, and this
isnt something they can control. Even my
teenagers dont get it when I finally turn off
the vacuum and sardonically announce, OKAY, THE
HOUSE IS NOW CLEAN--TIME TO GET IT DIRTY AGAIN.
They just look up with blank stares like you see on
zoo animals--that Dont bother me if it
isnt feeding time expression.
And dont kid yourself that carrying around
that egg-baby for a week in your high-school health
class was any real preparation. Taking care of an
egg, to mix metaphors, is a piece of cake.
Parenting never stops. Family life is a kind of
mindless force to which you, with your selfish need
for things like sleep, peace and quiet, personal
space, etc., must continuously adapt. How many
times, while running around madly trying to get
things done, have I found myself praying to get
back some of the time I wasted in my youth, like
listening over and over to all 17 minutes of Iron
Butterfly's Inna-gadda-da-vida?
I experienced a similar feeling of endlessness
when, as a sixteen-year-old, I started work at a
grocery store. I was a bagger (or "courtesy clerk,"
as management insisted on calling us). On the first
day I spent eight straight hours watching groceries
come down the belt, then piling them into paper
sacks. Somewhere during that eternity it occurred
to me that this whole process was truly unending;
people would always need food, would get hungry and
come back to the store over and over, groceries
would keep coming down the belts, bags would be
ceaselessly filled and emptied and filled again.
That night, in the refuge of dream, my teenage mind
thrilled as some beautiful faceless girl began
taking off her bikini top. But once it slipped from
her shoulders, I saw not the treasure I
expected--only groceries pouring out in endless
streams, apples, bread, canned fruit, cookies,
cartons of milk, as if from some horrible
cornucopia.
Domestic life is, unfortunately, quite similar.
A parent cant conceive of his role in terms
of days, weeks, even years--he has to stretch to
decades. This is the reality of family life.
And of course it gets boring. Sometimes I wonder
exactly what the difference is between having small
children and being under house arrest. Despite the
considerable amount of work and endless
attention-switching, theres also a lot of
down time--which can get to be
bring-you-down time. And the world of
kid culture is often less than reviving. I once
took my sons to a Care Bears movie. As the story
unfolded--fuzzy little bears oozing ditties and
plotting cheerfully, among rainbows, clouds and
unicorns, against a nasty wizard--I felt my boredom
reach crushing proportions. This, I
thought, is Hell. Its like
Sartres No Exit. Hieronymous Bosch has
nothing on these bears.
You can glimpse the inherent boredom of domestic
life in what my wife and I call the Kathy at
Farrradays phenomenon. Long ago, in
that now mythic time before we had children, we
went out one night to Farradays, a local
pizza place, with my sister and some friends. My
sister introduced us to Kathy and her husband;
Kathy was a housewife, with two small kids at home.
This meant nothing to me at the time. But
Kathys behavior certainly made an impression.
She drank too much beer, talked too loudly, kept
laughing and whooping it up--in fact, she
couldnt seem to get enough of anything. And
this was at a family pizza place where the wildest
possibility was plunking a quarter into the player
piano. It pains me to admit that I looked down on
her a little for this; I mean, youd think
shed never gone out before!
But Allah is merciful; if justice were
automatic, He would have struck me down then and
there. My karma finally rolled around years later,
when I became the housewife, and went out one night
with some people, so delighted to be free of my
duties, so thrilled with adult company, that I
drank too much, talked too much, laughed too hard
and too long, like a sailor on shore leave or a
prisoner after a jailbreak--acting, in fact, just
like Kathy at Farradays.
Only if youve known the hours of ticking
clock, the half-coherent twists and turns of a
pre-schoolers conversation, the endlessness
of laundry and dusting and sandwich-making, only
then can you understand why parents sometimes get a
little crazy out on the town.
And the nature of the child, of course, adds to
the challenges. Kids really are wild animals; I
dont think Miss Manners understands them
nearly as well as Charles Darwin might. Emotional
instability is a natural and essential part of
childhood. A good parent accepts this, but that
doesnt make everything easy. For one thing,
kids tend to communicate through noise and action
rather than through language. A screaming child is
to life at home what Old Faithful is to
Yellowstone. She wants this or that; you say no.
Suddenly she becomes an air raid without planes, a
rock concert without melody, an invisible
jack-hammer assaulting your cochlea. When she gets
a good one going youre sometimes tempted to
run out into the street. You know its your
job to put up with this, so you go to comfort the
little car-alarm, but silence has become your drug,
and you crave it with a junkies despair. If
you have more than one kid, theyll look after
each other, right? Sure, occasionally--except for
those times when they all scream at once, keening
like lost souls, endangering your own. Or those
equally priceless moments when, as your
pre-schooler is shrieking with the force of a North
Atlantic gale, your teenager blithely asks,
Dad, could you make me a sandwich?
If the two of them were mad cows, you could
shoot them. But theyre kids--and you
dont shoot kids.
This, however, is only one of the things that
can drive you nuts. At times this life takes almost
insane twists. Yesterday, just as Id picked
up the full laundry basket AND the ten shirts on
the multi-clothes hanger and started up the
basement steps, the phone rang. All right, I told
myself with jock-like determination, I can do this.
So I rushed up the steps, balancing the basket on
one hand and carrying the multi-hanger with the
other, in a flurry of flying socks and underwear.
But I had to pause at the top of the stairs; our
refrigerator is so close to the basement door we
have to lift the laundry basket over the fridge to
get it out of the basement. This is usually a
two-handed job, but I managed to do it with just my
left. More clothes went flying, of course--and the
phone rang a second time.
Still balancing the basket, I pulled the
shirt-heavy multi-hanger through the tight space
and quickly hung it on the refrigerator door
handle. Its weight, however, pulled the door open,
and with that movement the flashlight on top of the
refrigerator crashed down, bouncing off the
door-shelves and into the refrigerator. I can leave
it there! I told myself. Surely no one would eat a
flashlight!--and the phone rang a third time. I
dropped the laundry basket, pushed the refrigerator
door shut, and sprinted for the living room.
But when I picked up the phone--take a wild
guess.
What kind of person calls a house where kids
live and lets it ring only three times?! I slowly
replaced the receiver and closed my eyes. The
bastards!
(It was partly my own fault, I supposeI'd
so desperately wanted to hear another adult at the
end of the line, be it telemarketer,
survey-questioner, or phone evangelist. Hell, I
would have settled for a robo-call).
An experienced parent learns that you can never
predict the craziness this life will bring. You
just have to roll with it. Why should I get upset
when my young sons have removed every book from our
five-shelf book case and piled them on the
living-room floor? Why should I lose patience as
Shilly-Shally belts out her forty-third identical
verse of The Song That Never Ends? And
surely Im not the only parent in America who
stands picking peppercorns out of the sliced salami
for my sons bag lunches, dropping the foul
things into the trash can where they belong. They
feel no compunction whatever in saying, We hate
salami with peppercorns--but we like how it tastes
when theyve been picked out...
A further problem with life at home is the way
your own needs and desires are often crushed under
your parenting role. Committed parents cant
avoid feeling, at times, like overworked servants.
This is an intrinsically thankless job. For one
thing, it takes twenty years just to find out how
you did! And thanklessness goes with the territory.
Children just arent capable of understanding
parental behavior, and by the time theyre
teenagers their own developmental needs tend to
overwhelm any appreciation they might feel. Parents
have to more or less check their personal lives at
the door. I sometimes find myself mutely crying
out, in an immature yet heartfelt way, But
wholl take care of me?
Our recent experience with the evaporating
week is a good example of this.
On the morning of our anniversary, my wife and I
sat at the breakfast table talking
calendar. It was a rather pitiful discussion;
money-wise and time-wise, all we could squeeze out
for this august occasion was a quick dinner-date
(Anywhere but Macs! my wife
pleaded). What we really needed, of course, was a
weekends worth of the various blisses
available in any decent Montreal hotel, just an
hour north of us. But that was okay; the whole
situation, in fact, struck us as funny, and we
laughed. (Of course we still had all the Saturday
house-cleaning to do, which wasnt quite as
humorous).
So how did we manage to be so accepting, so
unselfish, when we hadnt been on a date
together since Grandma Moses danced disco? Parental
altruism, you ask? No. It was partly because we had
no choice, and partly because we had a
much-better-than-average week planned.
But then we started talking details.
My older son had agreed days earlier to babysit
Tuesday night so I could go hear the
Pulitzer-Prize-winning feminist journalist speak at
the university (my wife had to work; ironic, eh?).
But a time-check revealed the talk didnt
start till 8:00 p.m. Im Shilly-Shallys
bedtime guy; she simply wont sleep till
shes gotten two picture books, a story, and
usually a lullaby out of me. If I dont get
back till ten, shell be up till at least
eleven, and well all pay for that the next
day, her most of all. Besides, Im not
comfortable with the irony of supporting feminism
by disrupting my little girls life that
way.
But that was okay--my wife and I had planned to
catch a jazz concert on Wednesday night, and our
younger son, mirabile dictu, volunteered to
babysit. But then we find out its a 7:30
start (normal enough for everyone in the world
except the parents of small children with sleeping
problems). And I just remembered I have to give a
talk to an out-of-town group on Thursday night,
which Shilly-Shally will have to deal with. Two
late nights in a row, and their inevitable fallout,
just arent worth it.
Hey, I say to my disappointed wife,
maybe the boys could go to the lecture and
the jazz concert.
Uh, Dad? the younger says, with a
charming smile (quite aware of the brownie points
hed earned by offering to babysit).
Im broke. Could you guys...pay for my
tickets?
In less than five minutes, a week wed
looked forward to for some serious adult fun
simply...evaporated. Theres no other word for
it.
But then thats pretty much the way it is,
once that plastic stick in the home pregnancy test
turns blue. Parenthood is by definition an exercise
in selflessness. But even parents are only human,
so it also becomes a difficult kind of balancing
act. Marguerite Kelly and Elia Parsons wise
words about mothers can be applied equally to
committed fathers:
Motherhood brings as much joy as
ever, but it still rings boredom, exhaustion,
and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you
as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for
nothing is quite as hard as helping a person
develop his own individuality--especially while
you struggle to keep your own.
Another of the hard realities of domestic life
will probably surprise some men: Being with kids is
a surprisingly complex undertaking. Despite a lot
of ignorance on this point, the job actually
requires great skill, and experience can make a
huge difference.
I learned this the hard way. When LeBron flies
toward the hoop, he makes it look easy; Jimi
Hendrix would fling off those amazing guitar riffs
with a fluid power that seemed simple. In the same
way, what looks uncomplicated in domestic life is
usually the grace of the experienced
professional.
I love this caption from a picture, in Baby Talk
Magazine, of a father feeding an infant :
Feet and hands in motion, Maggie eagerly
downs her cereal. Shes a neat eater unless
she can get her hands on the bowl. Then its
all over. You want the bowl as close to the
mouth as possible, for obvious reasons, but that of
course puts it in the danger zone. If you fail,
guess what? Wipe down the highchair, mop up the
floor, launder the clothes, and bathe the kid. And
keep in mindthey eat more than once a day!
Talk about pressure; its worse than a
potentially game-winning free throw. Another
section in the same article features a
mothers struggles to get her two daughters to
nap at the same time; the difficulty of this task
is matched only by its intense desirability from a
parents point of view. Think about it: Just
how do you get such a thing to happen? Its
possible, I suppose--but you need at least the
patience and skill of a bonsai gardener to ever win
any success.
Some examples will underscore the point. The
following chart is my attempt to bring some order
to Shilly-Shallys drinking cups.
(Encyclopedic knowledge like this has always been
tucked away in the already overcrowded brains of
hard-working mothers). And remember, theres
more than a little at stake here. Kids love
routine; they crave it, demand it, go crazy without
it. Offer your charge the wrong cup at the wrong
time and youll hear about it. And if
youre callous enough to insist that it
doesnt really matter, your monkey may
freak on you.
Whatdont tell me you thought one cup
was enough!
Cup Name
|
Preferred Liquid
|
Place of Use
|
Straw Use
|
sippy cup
|
apple juice, water
|
universal
|
cant
|
fishie cup
|
apple juice, milk
|
bedtime snack always causes spills
|
occasionally dinner so sometimes
|
walking cup
|
apple juice
|
outdoors
|
sometimes. Alice in banana milk bedtime
snack never
|
Wonderland cup, tea-set cups
|
apple juice
|
tea parties
|
the very idea!
|
ordinary cup
|
whatever
|
Im anywhere, anytime
|
Oh no! That would drinking, which
prevent her from
she will then want back-washing
|
And note well: Straws are a very big deal. At
last count, Shilly-Shally had the following types:
regular, bendy elbow, dolphin, turtle, and four
kinds of crazy (a phrase which, coincidentally,
describes Shilly-Shally herself). And her straw
preferences can be as intense and whimsical as
those for cups.
But this is nothing compared to footwear.
Raising kids is a kind of perpetual war, with
battles breaking out suddenly after long periods of
boredom and slogging work. But the World War III of
dealing with pre-schoolers is footwear. Yesterday,
for example, I gently suggested that Shilly-Shally
wear her tennis shoes to school. But she insisted
that her hiking boots look Indian and
match her Pocahontas dress. The fact that the boots
no longer fit was irrelevant--that is, until she
couldnt get them on and started to cry and it
was suddenly all my fault.
And yet theres one thing worse than these
almost daily battles--and thats your usually
doomed attempts to actually buy new footwear. If I
had my way, wed all have our kids feet
sprayed up to the ankles with some kind of heavy
porous polyurethane--hand-washable, teflon-coated,
and grip-soled--that could be re-sprayed on a
yearly basis.
But theres really no way around the hell
of buying shoes for kids; its just something
you have to do.
The situation: Shilly-Shally in a shoe crisis.
Her tennis shoes are too short; she screams. Her
sandals are too tight; she screams. Her
aqua-socks are not only losing their
inner pad (the only thing that keeps them from
actually being socks) but have begun to smell like
dead things on the beach. We wont let her
wear them; she screams. Shes worn her black
dress shoes twice; now they pinch her feet. She
screams. We kiss that forty bucks goodbye, suppress
screams.
So we go out to buy new shoes. But dont
let the simplicity of that statement fool you.
Walking into the store, were met with a
vision of footwear paradise. There are rows and
rows and rows of shoes for kids. Our hearts
brighten; surely we can find something in this
Store of Wonders!
But once each of the interested parties has
asserted its own demands, the actual number of
possible purchases shrinks dramatically--the
interested parties being, of course, myself, my
wife, and Shilly-Shally.
You might think Shilly-Shally is
underrepresented in this process, or at least
out-gunned by parental authority. Nothing could be
further from the truth. We have the authority, but
she has the lungs. And were in public.
Although were the ones who usually initiate
legislation, Shilly-Shally exercises her
ear-splitting veto quite freely. It constitutes a
kind of final vote.
My wife is, naturally, the Prime Mover. But her
ideas about what to buy are fairly complex. She
knows we need something that (a) fits, and (b)
Shilly-Shallys little magpie-heart will love
enough to actually wear. But my wife entertains
other notions too, dangerous ones, to my mind,
about style, matching color,
season-appropriateness, and the like. This
complicates things enormously. When our
daughters godparents sent her a tri-colored
sweatsuit with matching troll-doll barrette, for
example, we had to find sandals to go
with the new outfit. The pair my wife decided
on fairly bristled with straps and buckles; they
looked like little strait jackets. I cringed to
imagine the tearful, scream-punctuated scenes each
morning as I struggled to get Shilly-Shally into
these sandals-from-hell and then buckle all those
tiny buckles with my thick dumb male fingers. But
my wife insisted, and she had an incontestable
principle on her side: The sandals matched the
outfit. Theres a federal law about it
somewhere. How could I possibly object?
You may have already surmised my only request
when it comes to childrens footwear: Velcro.
I feel nothing but pity for parents who lived
before its invention; they were ignorant savages,
and they suffered for it. Mt. Rushmore should have
five heads: those four political guys and the NASA
hero who invented this miraculous material.
My wifes reaction to this enthusiasm for
Velcro is very interesting; in fact, shes
downright ambivalent, though she hates to admit
that. On one hand shell dismiss the whole
topic as one more example of male laziness. And she
has a point. If left to themselves, many men would
live without the finer things: no
pictures on the wall, no curtains at the window, no
flower beds, no holiday celebrations. My wife has
helped me see how sad this actually is, and how, as
I've already mentioned, parents must continually
enrich family life with rituals, celebrations,
niceties, all the special touches. I agree with
her, though of course I can only take it so far. To
her, my insistence on velcro is akin to my
affection for old torn sweaters or a steady diet of
hamburgers and tater tots. From a certain female
point of view, men are pretty much like dogs.
Ive come to understand and appreciate her
perspective on this, and Im grateful to her
for teaching me. So I try to apply the general
principle in my fathering. But buying shoes for a
pre-schooler is, by definition, a crisis. So I go
with Velcro every chance I get--and watch with
amused detachment how my wife sometimes waffles on
her principles as the pressure at the shoe store
builds.
Standing there in the aisles, were hoping
to get our kid a sensible, long-lasting, convenient
pair of shoes with a decent fit. (We also dream of
world peace and an end to the budget deficit). Our
daughter, though, takes one sweeping look,
immediately fixes on the Princess Jasmine sandals,
then grabs them and wont let go.
You people at Disney--what the hell's the matter
with you?! Did you have to design these cheap
plastic sandals, encrust them with rhinestones, and
then slap HER picture on the side?! Its like
a box of chocolates in the middle of a broccoli
farm. Every little female in North America was
currently going weak in the knees over that cartoon
Madonna, parents standing pitifully behind,
wringing their hands. And the sandals themselves!
Somewhere under all that glitter is a pair of truly
crappy shoes. They pinch, they dont stretch,
the plastic rubs--have mercy on us! Do we have to
start blindfolding our kids in the shoe aisle like
we do in the cereal aisle at Safeway? We go to your
movies, buy your videos, your t-shirts, pajamas,
what not; couldnt you give us a break on the
plastic sandals?
It takes ten minutes to talk Shilly-Shally out
of the sandals--and we have to muster all the
pre-school reasoning were capable of. But
those ten minutes take their toll.
Shilly-Shallys emotional resilience, never
that strong to begin with, is wavering. She looks
like shes about to use her veto...!
But suddenly my wife spies a pair of white
loafer-type sneakers. No snaps, buckles, laces,
buttons, or deadbolts. The slip-on kind! Can it
really be true? Yes! They fit! And the kid wants
them!
We take them home--she still loves them! That
is, for twenty-four hours. The next day she decides
they dont fit and she hates them. She
screams. And we have to face facts: If a kid
doesnt like the shoes she wont wear
them. So we drag ourselves back to the mall
(stopping on the way to buy rum and coke for the
aftermath). Ive learned my
lesson, my wife declares. We just
cant buy cheap shoes. Thats why they
dont fit. (Forgive us, oh mighty
American Economy, for our reluctance to drop $40 or
$50 on a pair of shoes this weed will grow out of
in two months).
At the pricier store we find a pair of sandals.
Velcro straps--Im satisfied. Big black bulky
things like the kind Mexican farmers wear--but my
wife is now well past aesthetics. We start in on
the big sell. Oh, honey--what beautiful
shoes! They look cool! (a word our
daughters recently begun using, though God
only knows how she defines it). I bet you
could run like the wind in those! Hey! Theyre
the same kind Alex has (the little boy next
door). He got them last week, remember?! And
theyll match all your dresses... (Black
goes with everything, right?).
Looking tentative, Shilly-Shally stands in the
sandals, peers in the little foot-mirror, then,
saints be praised, begins to jump
kangaroo-style.
How much are they? I whisper
anxiously to my wife.
I dont care if its seventy
bucks! she hisses.
When we get home the three of us rush in, all
excited to tell the brothers. Then of course we
invite in the neighbors, slaughter the fatted calf,
set out food and drink, hire musicians. The war is
over.
So I decide not to say anything when I notice
how the soles of Alexs sandals--the little
boy next door, remember?--are beginning to flap
apart and obviously wont last the month.
Theres plenty to get you down in life with
kids; it would be naively dangerous to think
otherwise. I wish I could say Ive never lost
my temper, wallowed in self-pity, snapped at
people, etc. Ive done all this and more, have
acted just as childishly as my child does. You
probably will too, if you havent already. We
all fail as parents from time to time. And what we
hate most about such failures, I think, is simply
having to face the fact that were capable of
such things. But that, as Stuart Smalley says, is
all right.
In fact, its more than all right; such
lapses are an essential and natural part of the
overall process. They remind our kids that
were just as human as they are, that no one
is free from error, that adults too have limits.
And children, whose lives are shaped by adult
power, very much need to be reminded of such
things. Besides, our mistakes with our kids, if
theyre not truly damaging, help us to
maintain our compassion and empathy for the
struggles of childhood, inspiring us, through a
certain amount of shame, to do better. And we
do.
All the problems Ive mentioned so far can
in fact be overcome by hard work, loving patience,
a willingness to learn, and an active sense of
humor.
Not everything, though, can be attacked so
frontally.
The hardest thing of all, at least for us, is
what my wife and I refer to as the siren
call--which at times has seemed almost
capable of destroying us.
An adult home with kids can get to feeling very
strange, almost unnatural (which is odd when you
consider how profoundly natural parenting is, with
all the force of evolution behind it). But there
are times, as Ive said, when your house feels
like a prison. You get lonely; your brain begins to
go soft; you feel so out of it! The neighborhood
streets are empty except for occasional children,
very old people, cats and squirrels. Sometimes it's
as if youve been marooned. From time to time
Ill glance out the living-room windows and
happen to see some adult walking down the
street--and suddenly feel strong unbidden emotions
rushing through me. I should be out there, an inner
voice says, out in the world. That should be
me.
For a moment then I cant shake off the
passions I usually manage to keep quiet: pride,
ambition, my love of physical activity, my career,
even the echoes of my male upbringing with its
emphasis on action, reward, and respect--and I look
at myself and my life with something like disgust.
What am I doing here? I wail silently to myself;
Ive turned into a goddamn housekeeper !
But even this isnt the truly difficult
moment. For one thing, I recognize such outbursts
for exactly what they are: frustration,
selfishness, impatience, all the shallower emotions
growing restless beneath the primacy of love, which
rightly holds sway over them. As quick and hot as
such feelings burn, they pass away--because I know
what my presence in this house means to my
children, to laying the foundations of their lives.
But my sudden vehement protest leads me, sooner or
later, to the other moment, the truly difficult
one--difficult because its not mere
indignation but a profound call, a power trying to
seduce me not with weak and childish selfishness
but with the deeper reality of myself and the
world.
Just as the sirens called Odysseus when his ship
sailed past their rocky islet, the world itself
suddenly sings to me with overpowering sweetness,
right in my ear, as if a divine temptress standing
next to me. Im bending over the wash machine
in our little basement, lifting soggy laundry out,
when I suddenly picture Mt. Kilimanjaro above the
savannah, clouds sweeping from its dark summit,
just as we saw it that long-ago afternoon--and then
see stilt houses over shining mud at twilight, a
fishing village on the South China Sea--and then
Paris, the Pont Neuf and the Orangerie--all places
Ive been, in a life we had to give up, at
least for a time. Then I imagine myself with a real
office of my own (we dont have the room just
now), with hours and hours before me for the
thrilling labor of writing or music, the life of
art I crave--and then with even greater suddenness
the Call itself comes, searing through me like a
summons from some Rilkean angel. For a moment I
feel an indescribable pang. To be stuck here like a
janitor or cleaning woman, in this basement with
its half-dirt floor, in this little house, this
little town, day after day, when I should be out in
the world living my life to its uttermost!...
I hang my head for a moment. Then I notice water
from the wet clothes dripping onto my tennis shoes.
So I push the sodden load into the dryer, take a
deep breath, feel my heart begin to slow.
Not yet, I whisper to myself. Not yet. Love is
more important.
©2013, Tim Meyers
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