An Unfortunate Impulse...

We were driving up the highway a few days ago when one of the kids asked about sarcasm. I can't remember how the conversation started. Who knows how these things start. The question was put to me. "Dad, what's sarcasm?"

At this point, a wiser man than I would see where this was headed and end things before they got out of hand. Me? I have this delusion that when a child asks a question it is because of a genuine deficiency of knowledge and it is my job to supply it. Oh yes, I think, I can answer that for you my son. Behold, I have the very nugget of understanding you've been seeking. Be comforted by the abundance of my accumulated factoids.
This impulse to awe the masses goes way back. I remember taking rides in the car as a child and trying to bait my sister into asking me questions so I could have the pleasure of answering her.

So, when one of the kids asks a question, there's this impulse that drives me to answer. It's like a force of nature, a pontification instinct. "Sarcasm," I said, "is when you say one thing, but mean another. You use it for emphasis."

Bear in mind, my children are all under ten. According to accepted psychological standards, they are incapable of anything but concrete thought:

"Cognitive development refers to the development of the ability to think and reason. Children (6 to 12 years old) develop the ability to think in concrete ways (concrete operations) such as how to combine (addition), separate (subtract or divide), order (alphabetize and sort), and transform (change things such as 5 pennies = 1 nickel) objects and actions. They are called concrete because they are performed in the presence of the objects and events being thought about."
-- From an article on the Lucile Packard Children's Hopital at Standford

In other words, children under twelve only understand things they can see, touch, hear, taste or feel. They are the ultimate existentialists. This is why they struggle to communicate emotions. They can only explain how being sad or angry makes their body feel. To say one thing and mean another is not difficult to understand, it's impossible.

Children tell lies, but they know they are lying and they mean to convey the exact information they give, even if it is untrue. My children couldn't grasp the idea that you might say a thing that is untrue and mean the thing that is.

So I began to explain. In my defense, my wife helped with this part.

"If I go to the refridgerator and bring mommy back a Diet Pepsi, and she says, 'Thanks, I love Diet Pepsi.' Does she really love Diet Pepsi?" (imagine me investing exaggerated contempt into the phrase)

The children, who know we prefer 'the red can' as they call Coke to all others, answer "No, she doesn't like Diet Pepsi."

"So, why did she say that?"

"Because she doesn't want to hurt your feelings."
"Because she might like it she's never tried it."
"Because it's what you got her and if she doesn't like it she can get her own."

Concrete answers. It never even occurs to them that mommy was insincere in her statement. Never. The rapid fire answers were all based on the firm conclusion that she said exactly what she meant to say.

Just as I'm about to launch into another example and attempt to explain this abstract concept, my wife looks at me. She's out. I can tell by the look in her eyes. She's not going any further with this. Why, I think? We can explain this. We're smart. We can break it down for them.

Then the epiphany strikes me as well.

I am teaching my children to be sarcastic. I have a five-second horror show in my head of the sharp-tongued teenagers these kids will grow up to be. They are quite articulate now. Another five or ten years and straight answers will be a thing of the past. WHAT AM I DOING?!?

"Dad...?" they ask. They are waiting for me to re-engage. I stifle the pontification response. I suppress the teaching reaction.

"Let's talk about something else." Mom quickly supplies a new topic and we're off again, swerving away from the verbal doom I had steered us toward. Maybe I've learned my lesson. Maybe. I'm morbidly curious what it will be like when they do grasp this unattractive concept. They could all become brilliant satirists. More likely they will simply lampoon my every attempt to teach them anything after the age of fourteen.

But hey, that's life for a parent, right?

Because we are different...

We have a rule at our house. The rule is ‘no guns’. We own no toy guns despite having three boys that are as rowdy and aggressive as ever a man-child was. We have this rule because I don’t want them pretending to kill each other. That’s not a game.

Perhaps I am being too serious about it. Perhaps. It’s my house though. It’s my rule.

My children say, “What about hunting?”

If you believe in reincarnation then believe my children were trial lawyers in a previous life. If you don’t, then understand that my children are like all others in Western Civilization. They like to argue, so they ask about hunting.

“That’s true,” I say. “If you want to pretend to hunt with rifles and shotguns, you could. Do you want to play with toy rifles or toy pistols?”

I explain that pistols are hand guns.

They say, “We want toy pistols.”

I say, “I know.”

Now it’s October and it’s time for another hard decision. Halloween has been heavily marketed, like most holidays, toward kids. Each year my wife and I have grown more uncomfortable with the grisly displays that captivate and creep out our children when we go to the store. Skeletons, zombies and ghosts lurk in every Wal-Mart. Horrific movie posters decorate the windows of video stores.

I know that my kids don’t have to dress up like monsters and murderers. They could wear any number of innocent costumes. It would still be Halloween. It is the season for haunted houses and horror movies. These things belong. We do not.

I don’t know when vampires and witches became the good guys. I do know I have to draw the line somewhere. I’d rather not eat a brownie at all than eat a turd by mistake if there’s a chance of a mix up. I think in this case, there is a chance.

Maybe I’m sheltering them. In fact, I know I am. It’s my job. If I’m wrong, they can have all the Halloween fun they want when they grow up and leave home. They will be little the worse for wear, I think. We can play dress up any day of the week and candy is always in season. I see no reason to observe a holiday that is the traditional night of the deathly, the macabre and the nightmarish. Rather, I will take a pass. Let it be another day on the calendar like Bastille Day or Yom Kippur.

"Dear friend, do not imitate what is evil but what is good."
John the Beloved in a letter to his friend, Gaius ~ A.D. 90

Daddy.

I knew from the beginning that I wanted to have a family. Wanting such a thing is like wanting to get married. All you know is what you see other people doing and you want what they have. You don't know how hard it can be even thought they tell you it's hard. You don't understand how great it can be, even though you can see it in their faces.

When we got married, I felt like I was coming alive all over again. It was like something that had been missing so long I'd forgotten about it was suddenly back. When we had our first born, the feeling returned. Something I didn't even realize was gone had returned to me.

Since then we've rounded out the fold to four children, wild and wonderful. Each of them is so different, but so intricately connected to each other. I wonder if I'll ever really know them or if I only just see the things they show me. A few days ago, that first born, the one that changed my life forever, lost a tooth. I came home from work and that tiny bit of sharp enamel was sitting on the desk. This one is the benchmark, the child by whom I mark my years as a father, and now he smiles with a gap in his lower row. I think, my God, it's going too fast. Mommy says it out loud so I don't have to, so I can just be strong and proud of him for being older.

He smiles a lot now, too. There was time when he didn't. Families are organic.They grow and change, usually for the better. It's hard sometimes, changing. Sometimes it's too hard. Maybe we were just being selfish, but I couldn't let them go. I decided to teach them myself rather than let them leave me for a faculty of strangers every day. We learn together, reading books, learning about science and history and everything. We go to the park. We go to the library. We build, laugh, learn and love. And I'm there. I can see it all. If they figure something out for the first time, I don't have to wait for them to tell me or to bring home a test paper a week later. I saw the moment they understood.

I play with them. Not as much as I should, but as much as I can. They delight in play. I am a hero. I have the golden touch of play. Whatever I want to play with them becomes the best game in the world. Frisbee, Catch, Lego, it doesn't matter. If nobody wants to color with the little one, I can. If I do, they all will. Suddenly coloring in a coloring book becomes great entertainment. They all show me what they've colored. I look and laugh and notice all the right details and they swell with pride. They won't remember this as an adult, but they'll remember I always loved them.

I got called a lot of names as a kid. Most slid off without hurting but not all. But now I get called something that is as commanding as it is respectful. It is a higher calling that's common as dirt. From the lips of my children it can be the most endearing term of affection. They call me Daddy.

Do you hear what I hear?

It's about seven-thirty. I'm mostly awake, still getting there. I can hear my wife breathing. I can actually hear her drawing a breath in, letting it out, soft and rhythmic, peaceful in her sleep. I hear the A/C in the window. Its guttural hum is a constant in the background but sometimes the sound comes forward to have its own say. I can hear the dog begin to yip. She's awake and ready to be let out of her pen. The children are awake, too. I can hear them talking, maybe laughing. It's another thirty minutes before anyone should be out of bed. Oh, well.

The sounds of the day gather, like factory workers lining up before the start of their shift. The noise grumbles and has its coffee then gets down to the hard work of filling our house. The toilet flushes and water runs. Hard heels drum across the hardwood floor. I go down the creaking, squeaking staircase and start the coffee-maker making its own hissing speech.

Our home is not quiet. The hard-surfaced acoustics make that nearly impossible. Besides, kids are never quiet and we have four. They shout when they mean to speak and speak when they mean to whisper and they whisper when they don't mean to talk at all. They fill their space completely with a symphony of sounds, big and little, that go on continuously throughout the day. They live out loud.

This is how it is supposed to be, I think. Life is noisy. It is a sensory experience meant to fill us completely. The music we hear on the radio or in a concert hall is only a pale imitation of the harmony we hear all day, every day. It is like a painter trying to capture what he sees with a handful of man-made colors and a flat canvas. Real music really moves you. When I hear my son cry out in fear, I run. My heart pounds and I race to the rescue. No song can do that. It is the sound of his peril that drives me. It doesn't matter what the cause is or whether he's really in danger.

For me, sound is like a prophet, testifying to the unseen. It speaks of what has been, what is, and what will be soon. Sometimes I can hear the beginnings of disaster while it is still in the planning stage and I can intercede. Sometimes I don't hear until it is too late and the atonal chimes of breaking glass are my only warning. Even so, my life is filled with the soundtrack of reality, the music of children, the bedlam of domestic life. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I, like most parents, am uneasy to get what I ask for. The most frightening sound of all is silence.

A Father's Presents...

Okay dads, what is the greatest gift you can give your children? What's the best thing your dad gave you? Was it your first bicycle, first pocket knife, first car? Did he give you toys, tools, tickets, trips? I venture to say, you can't remember the majority of thing your dad gave you as a kid. A friend of mine likes to start a conversation by asking, "What did you get for your eighth birthday for you dad?" Well...?

If you can remember at all, I venture to guess it was a struggle, dragging up vague impressions of things that might have seemed vital at the time but became all but worthless a year, maybe as little as a month, later. Why? Because things, possessions don't last, not in our hands, not in our minds. If it was easy to recall the answer to that question then it's because some special significance was attatched to the answer. Something made it memorable.

Now, another question. Do you remember that time your dad took you fishing? Bowling? Camping? What about watching a movie with you? Teaching you a game? Teaching you a skill? Maybe you do remeber that pocket knife because dad taught you how to use it. My dad gave me an old knife of his for my first. And when I cut myself, he was there to bandage the cut, too. Chances are you have at least one memory of doing something with your dad. For some, it may be a rare and precious thing. For others, the memories run together because he always seemed to be there, even when he wasn't. His presence seemed to fill the home.

And that it. His presence. Presents or presence? Which did you recieve? Which do you give? Fathers, we know we must provide. It is a drive set deep in our hearts. We must provide food, clothes, shelter, opportunity, education. We are drawn to the responsibilty, can hardly help ourselves to do it, cannot help bear guilt when we can't. The unemployment line is harsh for that guy who has no one else but himself to depend on. It is a terrifying prospect to a man who has children at home who survive by the sweat of his brow. This is truth. We feel it, an invisible yoke on the shoulders of all mankind, to feed and cloth those who share our name and our home.

So, we have to work because we have to provide, now here comes the rest. What else must we provide? Fashion is important to kids, for social standing, for self-esteem. Toys and games for entertainment. Clubs and sports for opportunities. More than a man could ever hope to pay for is out there to buy for you and yours. And mine. And what can I do? How can I be sure they have everything they need? Every dollar I spend must be earned. So we drudge to the offices and factories and log our hours, building prestige with the company or storing up overtime pay. We spend those precious hours of our life working and hope that our families, our children will understand. Our wives apologize for us when we cannot come to the ball games, the recitals, the graduations. And we provide. We provide all that we can.

Except ourselves. They receives years of presents without our presence. Are we doing what's best for them? According the US Dept. of Health and Human Services, if you see ten kids, homeless or runaway, nine of them are without a father. Of ten tragic stories you hear of a young suicide, six were without a father. The statistics run like this into every area of human suffering. But statistics are dead and dry. Think of you're own children. Working two many hours, will by no means, drive them to run away or commit suicide, but if a father's presence is so critical, is it then the best gift you can give?

This week, decide to give your kids the present of your presence. Consider how you spend your money and your time decide if you could use more or less of each. Above all, remember that you ARE your children's hero. You didn't have to earn with it, they were born loving you and nearly worshipping your every action. Make the most of that opportunity. Be there, be the hero they already believe you are. You don't have to be perfect, you just have to be there.

A dangerous job...

Fatherhood has got to be the most insanely difficult thing a guy can take on. The only thing more difficult, I think, would be motherhood. Since stuggling seems to be entertainment in this country I thought I would start broadcasting my fatherhood triumphs and failures across the internet like a good American. After all, isn't that why Al Gore invented the internet? Or was it military intelligence? Umm. Must do more research.

Anyway, since this is my first post and I'm new, I'll info dump and get it all out of the way. I have four kids and a loverly wife who stays home with them while I trot off to work in the afternoons. We homeschool, so it's a full contact kind of parenting situation. We generate chaos at a rate of about ten incidents a minute, and for the most part that's the way we like it.