a peach is not always a peach
These past several days have proven to be some of the most trying afternoons I’ve experienced in my role as a primary source of comfort and stability for my son, a provider of warmth and love for my wife, and a well of sustenance for the ego and confidence required by that one X chromosome and one Y chromosome buried deep beneath my skin. Trouble arises. And then there are those times when trouble finds it appropriate to arise en masse.
This blog has served as a trivial little chronicle of my explorations as a newly-minted father, and I have always written with an audience in my head comprised of twenty-or-so rows of other newbie fathers and twenty-or-so rows of fathers-to-be. The elder dads - the seasoned veterans sprinkled amongst rows 37 through 40 - have no real need to observe the thoughts of a confused twenty-something dad trying to describe his encounters with parenting other than to chuckle at the memory of their own assuredly similar experiences with their own families. For them this is comedy. And for them I’m sure the accounts of my troubles seem inconsequential in retrospect. So, ye grand old men, now would be the time to switch back to the Discovery Channel and pass out on the couch. And if you chose to stick around, please try not to laugh out loud. The kid, after all, is finally asleep.
And so, the point of today’s sermon is: sometimes parents need some comfort too. Sometimes parents need a break. Sometimes parents can only be divided so many ways. And this is laughable to me because, well, we’re only a family of three. We’re haven’t yet been dissected into seventeen different parts expected in seventeen different places at the same time. We’re only up to eight or nine. And on any typical day those eight or nine pieces of us will work themselves into a nice little rhythm - a great background track - and you’ll rarely ever hear them drop the beat. Oh, maybe the kid might get sick. Or Dad might get stuck at work too late. Mom might be tired. Kid might be acting-out. But sometimes, all at once, dad gets stressed, mom loses focus, the two fall apart, anger ensues, feelings are hurt, stability is broken, claims are staked on the bed and the couch, the clouds are forming, the sky is falling, the Sox are losing, your stupid cat is staring you right in the face. . .
. . .and then your son - your darling son, your perfect, smiling, sun-dipped wonderment – finds himself in pain. He’s hurting, which is a fear every parent knows all too intimately. It‘s our single greatest fear. He’s hurting, and now’s the time when each parent needs to lean on each other to help him make it through. To help each other make it through. He's hurting, and he needs you both. Together. Right now.
But you can’t. At least, you don’t think you can. She’s not the one you want to lean on right now. And you’re certainly not willing to be her buttress. Hell, you’ve only just begun speaking to each other in a civil manner, and now. . . now he’s hurting. And you have to help him. Together. For crying out loud, why the hell does this have to happen now? Couldn’t this all have waited for another day? What the f***!
But no, this isn’t about us. It never was. This is about him. Why did we decide to bring him into our lives if we’re not going to do whatever it takes to make his life the best possible life we can piece together out of our own, faulted existences? I suppose the answer is easy. You have to forget your problems for now. It’s not your choice anymore, really.
You comfort him. Together. You show him how solid of a rock you can be together. You make sure as hell he doesn’t have any uncertainty about the foundation he’s standing on, even if he is only two. And when you’ve rocked that poor, uncomfortable boy curled-up between you to sleep, you fix the other problem between you. Now. And as fast as you can. The things you said, the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other, could take forever to heal. But you need to start that process now before he wakes up and the pain comes back.
I apologize if this isn’t the usual light and fluffy, “fatherhood is the bomb” blog entry. This is for me really. I'd like to think I’ve learned a lot from that wise old guard of fathers that are sitting in the last few rows of my mind, but if there are only two things I am allowed to take away from my encounters with them, it would be this:
This blog has served as a trivial little chronicle of my explorations as a newly-minted father, and I have always written with an audience in my head comprised of twenty-or-so rows of other newbie fathers and twenty-or-so rows of fathers-to-be. The elder dads - the seasoned veterans sprinkled amongst rows 37 through 40 - have no real need to observe the thoughts of a confused twenty-something dad trying to describe his encounters with parenting other than to chuckle at the memory of their own assuredly similar experiences with their own families. For them this is comedy. And for them I’m sure the accounts of my troubles seem inconsequential in retrospect. So, ye grand old men, now would be the time to switch back to the Discovery Channel and pass out on the couch. And if you chose to stick around, please try not to laugh out loud. The kid, after all, is finally asleep.
And so, the point of today’s sermon is: sometimes parents need some comfort too. Sometimes parents need a break. Sometimes parents can only be divided so many ways. And this is laughable to me because, well, we’re only a family of three. We’re haven’t yet been dissected into seventeen different parts expected in seventeen different places at the same time. We’re only up to eight or nine. And on any typical day those eight or nine pieces of us will work themselves into a nice little rhythm - a great background track - and you’ll rarely ever hear them drop the beat. Oh, maybe the kid might get sick. Or Dad might get stuck at work too late. Mom might be tired. Kid might be acting-out. But sometimes, all at once, dad gets stressed, mom loses focus, the two fall apart, anger ensues, feelings are hurt, stability is broken, claims are staked on the bed and the couch, the clouds are forming, the sky is falling, the Sox are losing, your stupid cat is staring you right in the face. . .
. . .and then your son - your darling son, your perfect, smiling, sun-dipped wonderment – finds himself in pain. He’s hurting, which is a fear every parent knows all too intimately. It‘s our single greatest fear. He’s hurting, and now’s the time when each parent needs to lean on each other to help him make it through. To help each other make it through. He's hurting, and he needs you both. Together. Right now.
But you can’t. At least, you don’t think you can. She’s not the one you want to lean on right now. And you’re certainly not willing to be her buttress. Hell, you’ve only just begun speaking to each other in a civil manner, and now. . . now he’s hurting. And you have to help him. Together. For crying out loud, why the hell does this have to happen now? Couldn’t this all have waited for another day? What the f***!
But no, this isn’t about us. It never was. This is about him. Why did we decide to bring him into our lives if we’re not going to do whatever it takes to make his life the best possible life we can piece together out of our own, faulted existences? I suppose the answer is easy. You have to forget your problems for now. It’s not your choice anymore, really.
You comfort him. Together. You show him how solid of a rock you can be together. You make sure as hell he doesn’t have any uncertainty about the foundation he’s standing on, even if he is only two. And when you’ve rocked that poor, uncomfortable boy curled-up between you to sleep, you fix the other problem between you. Now. And as fast as you can. The things you said, the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other, could take forever to heal. But you need to start that process now before he wakes up and the pain comes back.
I apologize if this isn’t the usual light and fluffy, “fatherhood is the bomb” blog entry. This is for me really. I'd like to think I’ve learned a lot from that wise old guard of fathers that are sitting in the last few rows of my mind, but if there are only two things I am allowed to take away from my encounters with them, it would be this:
Sometimes being a father and a husband is the greatest thing you’ll ever have the fortune to experience.
Sometimes it’s not.
Either way, you still have to BE the greatest father and husband.
Now smile :)
1 Comments:
ohhh...
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