Manual Focus

Funny, this post was started well over a decade ago...thank you for safeguarding my thoughts, cloud robot...

This might have been left unpublished because it illuminates the very tender connection I’ve had with Annie ever since we met for the first time…but reading some powerfully beautiful stories a good friend recently shared about their parenting experiences—including the fight to find joy in the face of heartbreaking tragedy—made me take stock of the miracle of my own, and I thought that if something I shared might make even the smallest difference in someone else’s day or outlook or relationship, then I really don’t have anything to lose. So, here we go…again.

(Circa 2012) 

Parenting is a unique adventure.  The journey is uncharted (or vaguely charted, at best), and, from an experimental point of view, highly unrepeatable because the subjects are so vastly different in temperament and in response to the same type of input.  I know what is going to happen every time I heat water on the stove.  I know what is going to happen with a similar level of certainty when I plant seeds in the ground.  I even have a pretty good idea what is going to happen every time I leave my dirty socks on the bedroom floor...(I should add here that this type of experiment is dangerous and should not be repeated.  I should also add that I really need to take my own advice).  Boiling water, bean sprouts and loose laundry give me hope that there is some order to the universe.  This is essential after having been a parent of small children, especially when a little girl comes along after two…ummm…typically unique boys. 

Cooper, a boy who enjoys play and loves art, writing and research is a stark contrast to his little brother Aaron, who lives for the outdoors and any type of sport or activity that takes him there (Update: ten years has changed practically nothing with these two). 

And then, she came along...

She walks on sunshine and each breath is a song...I've spent weeks of nights on the floor next to her bed, having fallen asleep during the process of settling her in after an exasperating day. She has been my source of hope when I'm a flailing and bewildered mess of a parent.  When she was three or four, on an especially overwhelming day, bedtime was a direct order, and not the usual invitation to giggle and read and sing.  After an abruptly abbreviated send-off, I stopped just outside her door, just to catch my breath. In that nano-moment of my own silence, I heard her soft sniffle.  I just about missed it. I know her well enough that it wasn't just a ploy—a Hail Mary play for my attention—it was a genuine expression of heartache. I could almost hear her train of thought, "Daddy is mad. Is he mad at me? I hope he'll be happy again."  It was as though our thoughts had connected through the air, and I found myself unable to move any further down the hallway.  Turning back into her room, I knelt down by her bed, and as she threw her arms around my neck, she tearfully whispered “It’s okay Daddy, we’re getting there.” We just stayed there like that for a while until, inspired by her reassurance, I started to sing.  It wasn't a song we’d ever heard before...it was just for her. And me.  

In the years since, on more than one occasion, we have sensed the need in each other to hear it again.  Without ever writing down a single word, she sings it to me or I sing it to her and it is peace...it means I'm sorry or I know you're being a jerk but I love you anyway. I love you. And you love me..so let's just hug and cry and get over it.

After a long night,
After a long day,
I wonder to myself, am I doin okay?
After a long day,
After a long night,
I ask myself will I ever get it right?
And just when my hope starts to fade away
You wrap your arms around me and you say:
It's okay, Daddy, we're getting there,
Someday, Daddy, we'll make it there,
It's okay, Daddy, I love you...today.

And that, my friends, is all you really need.

Don't be silly (Summer 2011)

Another from the Draft Vault…thank you for patiently waiting 😂

I love instructions.  I let them guide me through any technological or mechanical endeavor whenever possible.  I wouldn't say that I'm lost without them, but I do miss them fiercely when they are not there.  I also love rules.  My fellow fathers have noted this about me,and I'm even known to one of them as "Safety Guy."  Whether it's a hot dog roast around the fire pit, or friends on the trampoline, or the speed limit through the kitchen (man that room is unsafe—who puts a giant fire box inside somebody's house and surrounds it with knives?), I have regulations for nearly any circumstance.  Any infraction leads to a serious talking to—I wouldn't say "lecture" (but my wife would)—and possibly harsher consequences.  These times, as well as when I'm instructing my children on the facts of our magnificent universe, are times when I start to take myself a little too seriously.  Those who know me best understand that underneath my jovial exterior lies a broody introvert just waiting to clam up—I wouldn't say "pout" (but my siblings would)—but I try to be positive and happy. For those of you following my sporadic diatribe, you know just how darn funny I am...anyway, I love when my kids snap me out of my seriosity with their sweetness or their own brand of humour (which usually garners more acclaim than mine).  For example, when he was just four or five, I had sufficienly addicted Cooper to Slurpees, which he would ask for every time we drove past our neigbourhood convenience store.  One such request was made mid-January, which was easily deflected with an explanation that cold drinks are for when it's hot outside. This effectively stopped the requests for a couple of weeks. Then, having all but forgotten about the issue, we were in the car and my science-minded Cooper asked me something about the composition or temperature of the sun. As usual, I engaged in an overzealous explanation of every solar fact I could recollect. 

"Wow, the sun sure is hot, right Dad?"

"Yes, it sure is, buddy." 

"Yeah, then we should probably get a Slurpee." 

He had me there.

More recently (but now anciently), I was explaining to Annie—in far too great detail for a then three-year-old—that if she didn't wear socks with her shoes, she would get sores on her feet, and that these sores would hurt.  Of course, I used the word "blisters", and, upon hearing this word for the first time, she looked at me and burst out laughing, repeating the world through her chuckles..you know, like, "Come on dad, at least use a real word—now you're just being silly...blisters."  It's at this point I realize that 'sores' or 'owies' would have been sufficient and I go on to wonder how often I confuse my children because I am explaining things so over-extensively that they roll their eyes and shut their ears.  Or, I spend so much time explaining the 'what' of a principle and gloss over the 'why.'  The trouble with this is that the 'why' is where all of the love and understanding and connection are found. In the realm of parent-child relationships, Silly is the universal language.

Update: Fast-forward a decade or so and I now have to use Google Translate to understand just about anything that comes out of their mouths…I suppose I asked for that.