Fatherhood

Ian only started school this year, and already I do all I can to stay involved. I make every school function, I visit his classroom to play with and read to his classmates. Considering how much time our kids spend in school, and the importance of their education, there’s simply no excuse for a parent not to be fully involved in their child’s school.

Watch D.O.G.S. takes fatherly involvement to a new level.

‘…WatchDOG dads [are]volunteers in a national program that puts fathers on school campuses each day to bolster security and act as role models. DOGs stands for Dads of Great Students.

WatchDOGs can also be grandfathers or other adult male family members.

They greet students as they get off buses in the morning. In the afternoon, they walk the halls and perimeters of a campus, checking to see that the appropriate doors are locked. They also help teachers in class and monitor cafeteria and recess periods.’

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American-Statesmen

There’s an assumed distance between fathers and schools. That perceived disinterest is, historically, partly our fault. But it doesn’t really exist, not if we act as though it doesn’t. Stay-at-home mothers are the de facto leaders of my son’s school, so much so that monthly parent meetings are held during the day. I spoke with the principal who spoke with the group’s president, who moved the occasional meeting to evenings.

It just takes effort. Ask your child’s teacher if you can periodically visit the class, and offer your help. My wife’s a teacher, and they’re glad for it! If you’d like your school to become involved with Watch D.O.G.S., visit their site for more information.

Topix came across this…rant, I supposed you’d call it, on Free Republic. The site looks to be a collection of forums and news for ‘independent, grass-roots conservatism’; I’ve no idea what that means. Anyway.

‘…here, my aim is simple: a few words to convict the hearts of cowardly men who are unwilling to help their wives, and instead, weakly lean on medications to get them through the ‘trauma’ of childbirth. Yes, guys, exclusively, are the source of the epidural problem.’

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Free Republic (GoBucks)

The battle over natural childbirth is nothing new, but I’d never heard it applied to fathers. GoBucks’s argument is that, by encouraging his wife to use pain control, a man is denying the responsibility of fatherhood. That pain medication ‘mutes’ the joy of birth, and hinders bonding between mother and child and father.

‘Eagerly sought out epidural-birth,’ says GoBucks, ‘…is a message from the Father to his family: “I don’t have what it takes for the childbirth, and chances are good that pattern will remain henceforth regarding fatherhood and husbandry.”‘

He also implies that 9/11 was a symptom of this apparent weakness. There’s a tongue-in-cheek logical fallacy called reductio ad Hitlerum, in which one invokes a comparison with Hitler and Nazis. The general rule is that the first to make such a comparison looses the argument, by default. I think the same can be said of 9/11.

I certainly can’t fault GoBuck’s assertion that fathers should be involved in the birth of their children. I wouldn’t've missed it for anything. But how does an epidural equate a father’s absence?

Ian’s birth was induced. He was large even before his due date, and my wife was born by cesarean. We wanted to give him every possible chance of going head-first. But the pitocin didn’t work, not at first. My wife was given the maximum dose, and nothing happened. Until they broke her water, the effect of which was what I imagine it feels like being thrown from a tumbling stock car.

And as my wife lay there, unable to focus her eyes and body convulsing—not even a slight exaggeration—I shouted at the nurse to find the anasteciologist. After the epidural, my wife was able to rest, and I was able to run to the cafeteria for a pastrami on rye.

Even then, the birth was anything but easy. The kid, frankly, had a big head. Still does. For a while, it seemed that we would have to have a c-section: especially when my son’s heart rate dropped. The situation improved, but my wife still needed help. Her doctor told ordered me to stand in front of my wife. She handed me one end of a sheet, my wife the other. And we pulled.

Together, my wife and I pulled and strained and kicked our son out of the house.

I just wish we could’ve bonded.

If Ian’s generation turns into the most selfish, pushy, and inconsiderate the United States has ever seen, it will not be their fault. I took Ian to a local mall’s playground on Saturday night. I wish I hadn’t, despite the weekend’s lack of exercise. A mob of children ruled the jungle-gym, with disinterested and distracted parents not paying attention.

We’ve worked very hard to teach Ian about respect and politeness. About sharing and waiting his turn. Sometimes it feels as though we’re the only ones.

The slide is always a problem. The line is long, and kids shove until it’s their turn. Ian stands and waits, but because he doesn’t push, the other kids assume he’s not standing in line. It took him five minutes to use the slide, and that was only because I finally forced the issue.

Unfortunately, that’s nothing new. Neither is kids trying to climb the slide as others come down. What made me furious were the parents who were helping their kids climb. Not just pushing them, but yelling at other kids to get out of their child’s way. And doing nothing about the inevitable collisions and squashed fingers.

Need I mention the boy who hit the back of his head on the slide, with nary a parent in sight? I waited fifteen seconds before I rushed forward, which is an eternity when a child is lying motionless on the floor, clutching the back of his head.

Or the toddlers, earlier at Burger King, who left food and trash thrown on the floor as their mother sat talking with her friends?

I don’t think I’m the perfect father. But come on, people! If you have kids, that means you’re a parent. Act like it!

Over a year ago, my wife bought a hand-held massager on massive sale from Linens-N-Things. Her reasoning was that it would make a good gift for…someone. She didn’t know who or when, but a good deal is a good deal. Since then, the massager has been sitting in our house, collecting dust.

My wife is sick, and has been suffering tension and sinus headaches. This weekend, she broke down and grabbed the massager for herself. It looks like a plastic branding iron. Of course Ian was drawn to it. He put it on his stomach, legs, and neck, laughing at how it ‘tickled’. Then he used it on the floor. And the door. And the cat.

We took it away.

And, having taken it from my son, what was the first thing I did with the massager? I put it to the front of my neck, to see what it sounded like when I talked. And balanced it on the palm of my hand like a baseball bat.

What? I was curious.

For any fathers fortunate enough to live near Coshocton, Ohio, make sure you visit The Pomerene Center for the Arts within the next two weeks. Through November 12, the Center is hosting an exhibit called A Picture of Fatherhood, by photographer Rev. Gregory Griffith.

The Reverend’s collection features black-and-white pictures of fathers and their children:

‘”I tried to get natural images, which are more beautiful and telling,” he said. “In some of the photos we are using, the subjects weren’t even aware the picture was being taken.”‘

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Coshocton Tribune

Ohio’s Department of Job and Family Services collaborated with The Pomerene Center for the Arts to develop the exhibit, and hopes to tour the collection, and publish the photos in a book.

This, more than anything else, is what I think fathers need to help improve our image. Commercials with fewer bumbling and incompetent dads would be nice, but overall we just need to see more average fathers, being fathers. After all, the backbone of fatherhood isn’t the popular media; it’s men, throwing their children into the air.

On the heels of my rant about gun control comes this story about a father in Pretoria, South Africa:

‘A Pretoria father, shot in the face and stabbed several times in the back and neck, repeatedly fought off two thugs trying to rape his 12-year-old daughter and murder his six-year-old son.

…Herbst, hiding behind his children’s bedroom door, charged into one of the men as he came into the bedroom before racing for the alarm panic button in the passage.

Screaming in pain as the man stabbed him five times in the back and neck, Herbst yelled at [his daughter] to jump through the bedroom window and run for help before running to his son, whom he pushed under a bed.

…”All I could think about was chasing the men out of my house to protect my family. I was screaming like a mad thing and just ran repeatedly at the thugs, thinking that I had to get them out even if it meant I was killed,” he said.’

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Independent Online

Note, Herbst fought the intruders with his bare hands. This man is my hero, and I need to start working out.

(Thanks, Art!)

I have yogurt every day, for lunch. We haven’t been to the grocery store for a while, so today I took a cup of my son’s Yoplait Kids yogurt. It’s strawberry-vanilla, but really it’s neither. Dora is featured on the side, her arms raised in triumph as butterflies circle her head.

Dora’s yogurt is much like her television show: bland, and a little painful. It’s like eating bathroom caulk.

I remember this from Ian’s first year. We’d try his baby food from time to time, and often wouldn’t force him to eat it again. I know manufacturers are concerned about too much sugar and food allergies, but we’re Presbyterian. Ian doesn’t need anymore bland in his life.

There’s been a lot of attention lately given to men and women having children later in life. The focus has been largely biological: as we age, so too, of course, does our DNA. Hence all the wrinkles. The older the parents, the greater the chance of genetic disorders: Down’s Syndrome is the usual example. Recent evidence has shown some connection between autism and older fathers.

But these concerns deal only with the first nine months of a child’s life.

Earlier this fall, we had breakfast at The Cracker Barrel. Don’t ask me why. While we were waiting for a table, a couple in their 50s arrived with their one-year-old son in tow. It wasn’t that the father was disinterested, but he seemed not quite sure how to relate to his son. He looked much like I imagine I do with a drill. I know I should to do something, I’m just not sure what.

Watching his awkwardness, my mother-in-law told us about a couple she’d seen the previous weekend. They were also in their 50s, also with a one-year-old son, and were visiting St. Louis. The wife suggested they visit the zoo the next day. The husband frowned and asked, ‘Why?’

Not that such behavior is by any means limited to older fathers, and I’m certainly no fit candidate for Father of the Year. But fatherhood has a learning curve, and I think that curve is steeper the later a man has children.

I was married just after college, and became a father three years later. I was never really a bachelor, and didn’t have time to get used to doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and however I wanted. By the same token, my and my wife’s marriage never had its ‘bachelor’ phase. When Ian was born, it wasn’t difficult reconciling our lives with the sacrifices that needed to have been made.

Life with children is vastly different from life without, and I suspect the difference seems greater at 45 than it does at 25.

I’ve had chronic back pain for nearly six years, ever since I started spending my days hunched in front of a computer. It’s only a coincidence that I’ve also been married for six years. Seeing a chiropractor helped, but I’ve gone downhill over the past year.

And then I look at my son. At playgrounds, he liquefies his skeleton and squeezes through openings that would make Twiggy think twice. Sometimes when he’s on my shoulders, he’ll fall backward and dangle by his ankles.

But what really makes me want to cry are mornings. I’ll flip the light on, and find him sleeping with his head crooked behind a knee, one arm trapped under his body, the other wedged under the sideboard. He looks so peaceful, so slumbery, so…comfortable.

Note to self: encourage the dancing.

A Philadelphia father has been arrested after pulling a gun on his son’s football coach. Wayne Derkotch threatened the coach because he felt his son wasn’t playing enough.

Did I mention this was a game for six- and seven-year-olds?

Leaving aside—for the moment—this country’s manic devotion to football, why is this man allowed to possess a gun? And don’t give me Second Amendment rights. With rights come responsibility, and when it comes to firearms, Americans don’t have any.

These past few months have seen waves of school shooting after school shooting, and I’m tired of it. The only way the majority of students have access to guns is from friends and family; usually parents. A local student recently tried to commit suicide in the parking lot of his high school, with his rifle. Another Missouri student brought an assault rifle to his middle school; the gun belonged to his parents, and was allegedly kept in a safe.

Earlier this month, a fellow blogging father discovered that his daughter had been playing at a friend’s house, where they found four handguns hidden throughout her parents’ bedroom.

Fathers who own guns have told me that it’s important their children learn responsibility and respect toward firearms. I’ve never owned a gun, and I’ve never had difficulty grasping the idea that guns are dangerous. We like to think of our children as responsible and rational. And they have their moments, and the potential. But a thirteen-year-old boy is anything but rational, and is certainly not experienced. It only takes one mistake for your child to die.

Others claim the right to bear arms. I’ll concede the point: we have the right. But I gladly forgo my right to own a handgun for the duty of responsible fatherhood.

Last week, I told you about Canon, a four-year-old boy who was struggling after a heart transplant. Canon’s mother, Carla, has announced that he passed away on Saturday:

Canon my beautiful angel from heaven passed away this morning. He had two major bleeds last night in his brain. Doctors could not do anything for Canon. I along with family and friends were with him when he died.

Thank you so much for all your prayers during this tough time. Canon is now playing baseball, football, basketball, and drinking all the Sprite he wants.

Love, Carla

The internet is a powerful tool of emotional detachment. We lurk behind user names and screen names, presenting a face we want the world to see. We can close the browser, click ‘Back’, choose to follow links or not. We can even wipe our footprints from the snow, leave without a trace. We can ignore.

Yet what a blessing to have known Canon, if only briefly and from a distance.

Last Sunday our choir sang The Heavens are Telling, from Haydn’s The Creation. God has, so far, created the heavens and the earth; who is there to praise Him but the angels and the stars? My wife was one of the soloists, and had been practicing at home—and probably in the car—for two weeks.

We went to the zoo with her folks after church. On the way, Ian started humming and tilting his head back and forth. He suddenly raised his voice: ‘Never! Never! Neeeever!’

The words are supposed to be ‘ever’, but I don’t think God minded.

Joe at DadBloggers has written about fathers and the wounds we give our sons. He paraphrases author John Eldredge, who theorizes that boys are somehow, sometime, ‘wounded’ by their fathers (or father figures), the result of which is a persistent lingering doubt about their competence.

As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.

Joe uses the example of his son asking for help, and Joe encouraging him to do things for himself. I’m in a similar bind. This year, Ian has started ceaselessly asking for help. While I don’t mind lending a hand with something new—learning to ride a bike, getting dressed, long-division—I simply refuse to help with everyday tasks like climbing down from bed, or eating. I want him to learn independence, and to discover his skills. And to ask nicely.

But does Ian realize that? All he knows is that he’s asking for help, and I’m saying ‘no’.

There’s (generally) a lot of thought that goes into parenting. Consistency is crucial, and it’s hard to be consistent when you’re flying by the seat of your pants. But all three-year-olds can do is fly. They don’t have planned responses, and they don’t ask their friends for advice on being successful children.

That difference worries me. There’s a significant gap between my son and the reasons behind my actions; sometimes it seems the difference between a well-adjusted young man and Howard Hughes.

That gap narrows, but can never be closed. It can be bridged, but how do I keep my son from falling in the meantime?

Despite what librarians would have us believe, Wikipedia is a wonderful thing. It’s a font of superficial knowledge, perfect for sounding intelligent or finally winning the History category in Trivial Pursuit. Or finding the categories of Trivial Pursuit, for that matter.

Today, on a whim, I searched for ‘fatherhood‘. I was curious to know how the online community came to a consensus on what it means to be a father. I now understand why this ain’t the only fatherhood blog in town.

Fathers biological, social, legal, absent, stay-at-home, weekend…even ‘legally fatherless children’. What’s a dad to think? By comparison, ‘mother‘ has a fairly simple entry. Conception, gestation, ‘raising children’, Mother’s Day. There’s even a picture of a duck with her ducklings. Aww.

It’s fairly clear that being a father isn’t what we once thought it was, and we’re looking for answers. How did we so complicate something as simple as a father and his child?

My son’s teacher is a genius. She keeps a large, toddler-height table in her classroom that can be filled with water, along with a slew of plastic funnels, boats, cups, and paddle-wheels. But that’s merely ‘neat’. The genius comes when she fills the tub with millet: chicken feed.

I can’t explain it, but a tub filled with chicken feed is more fun than should be allowed. There’s something about the texture and sound, the way it moves through your fingers. It’s like water but not, and magnitudes cleaner than sand.

The school held its annual fall festival last night. Ian’s class had a booth—a play area for toddlers—and this table was the main attraction. It was constantly surrounded by a shifting swarm of red-cheeked and wet-nosed kids, hands dipping and swirling and squeezing.

Toward the end of the evening, a pair of six-year-old twin boys—with hair to match their cheeks—were engrossed with the fowlish fodder. Their father told them it was time to leave; he could’ve just as well have told them the closing points of the DOW. He kept telling, they kept playing, even as he grabbed their wrists to pull them away. As they were led from the table, their arms kept stretching and straining for one last grasp of seed.

Lately I’ve become more and more frustrated with Ian. He’s generally well-behaved, but uses me and my wife to test the boundaries. And he does it just to do it. I’m losing patience more and more often, and it’s starting to feel as though I’ve somehow, somewhere, failed as a parent. Which is stupid. The logical, rational part of me knows Ian’s behavior is normal. Probably. But the father part of me feels…helpless.

Which is why last night was so refreshing. I was assured by the twins’ behavior. This man wasn’t a bad father. He was simply the father of two six-year-old boys. It was a relief to learn that I’m not alone. And that Ian isn’t a hooligan.

This was closely followed by the realization that I have, at least, three more years of telling my son ‘no’.