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AustinMama offers up some Daddy props.
- Robert A. Heinlein
It doesn’t matter who comes to our house, some parts of the experience of visiting approach the universal. At some point during the stay, Hugh will animatedly show them a toy dinosaur, some chicken bones, a homemade baking soda and vinegar volcano, a front loader, the planet Mars in a book, or whatever else his interest of the day is, and lecture them on why he finds it interesting. Most of this is pretty cool stuff, and his Discovery Channel persona is a well-practiced one. Visitors unused to him can be astonished at his knowledge of the mechanics of Mount Saint Helens erupting, or where the olfactory lobes are located on his model of a T-Rex’s brain, and I know he finds those moments very gratifying. When someone fails to understand him, he’ll summon me to translate, and one of the reasons he is so articulate results from the careful attention he pays to sesquipedalian scientific dialogue. If our hapless visitor is dismissive of him, he’ll put a hand on their jaw and turn their face physically to his to make eye contact. When he’s gotten some sort of explanation in, conversation can return to whatever the adults were talking about, and he’ll go back to what he was doing. Eccentric, perhaps, but I smile indulgently because I think it’s relatively harmless, and shows his intellect to its best advantage.
Keefe has a similarly deep-seated need to feel he is being heard, but it manifests somewhat differently. He’s always been, and will likely forever be, the more socially driven of the boys, and his social calendar seems more complex at nine than mine has ever been. I marvel at his confidence in such things, which was never my strong suit as a boy. Other forms of Keefe's confidence are apparent in struggles he has with me. It feels, at times, that I can hardly ask him to put a few dishes on the table or help me tidy up a mess without a long argument from him about why he wants to do something else, or why can’t he vacuum instead of sweep, or in some other way shift from "doing the thing dad asks" to "doing things his own way." I find this utterly infuriating, particularly when one of us is tired and cranky -- which is when we get into sniping matches with each other. In moments of clarity, however, as when he’s returned exhausted from a sleep over at a friend’s house and I've had a peaceful night’s sleep in his absence, I recognize that he’s displaying precisely the same conflict management tools that have complicated my own life.
In a reflective moment, I realized that this is what people mean when they talk about your children turning into you. I’ve never wanted the boys to be anyone but themselves, and I’m a little uncomfortable with parents who seem to want their children to walk the roads they themselves always wanted to tread, but didn’t. I can’t wrap my mind around people who name their sons ‘junior’, as if they’re spiritual clones of dad. And while I see that my progeny live in the environment created by my interests and habits, I try to provide as much opportunity as possible for them to define themselves and their own interests.
Completely unconsciously, though, they seem to have inherited a variety of foibles, idiosyncrasies and traits that are embarrassingly like looking in the mirror. It brings me to wonder a lot. How has my habit of collecting obscure facts and sharing them with complete strangers served me? How, if Keefe gets just as dogmatically thick headed as I do, can I help him avoid bashing relationships with his head as catastrophically as I have sometimes done? In short, the last thing I wanted to bequeath to them was my faults. What guidance can I give them if my blind spots are the same as theirs?
Of course, I can just as easily argue that no one is more qualified to help them deal with handicaps such as mine than I am. Haven’t I been negotiating with my strengths and weaknesses longer than anyone? I’ve gotten better at understanding when a stranger doesn’t find the heterozygosity of the apple as fascinating as I do, and so will Hugh. And even if Keefe proves to be as stubbornly opinionated as I am, which is a lot, I know that my adventures eventually landed me in a spectacularly mutual and supportive marriage and surrounded me with a circle of fascinating and accommodating friends. More than that, I can’t be objective about these elements of the boys’ makeup at all. I kind of like them. Sure, it makes me nuts when Keefe locks horns with me, but I’m convinced he won’t be easily led by his peers either, so maybe it’s a bonus.
In order to illuminate the tripping hazards on this road for them, I’m discovering that I need to make more regular time to meditate and self reflect. If I can be more conscious that making my point is overriding the need to shut up and listen, I’ll fight with Keefe less, and he’ll in turn begin picking up the same skill. It’s only when I stumble around on autopilot that my deplorable excess of character is a disadvantage. When I’m on the ball, I can be fascinating and eloquent. Who knew? It’s also vital to acknowledge and honor the tempering role my wife plays in this equation. In a lot of ways, she and I are great foils for each other, so she is as elegantly a foil for the boys when, like all primates, they show off what great mimics they are.
As much as I know the boys are
learning from me, even things that I may
not want to teach them, I also
strive to keep learning from them. The
future moves forwards through them,
after all, so they must grow beyond
me and the limitations of what I
know. Children have an inherent
wisdom of their own, and the
glimpses that I manage into the long
forgotten world they see around us
are always instructive. The wonder
of today’s science lesson through
Hugh’s eyes is a bright flash of real
discovery, of his world becoming
wider, and it does more than reassure
the part of my ego that loves his
intelligence. It gives me hope.
Both of my sons are growing in
imagination and insight so quickly, as
sponge-like young minds do, that I
can’t help but breathe a sigh of
relief. I’ve become pretty set in
a lot of my ways by now, but their
tools are simply expanding, and
they’re getting better every day at all
the things they do. I’m sure they’re
going to handle my baggage better
than I. They will, as we all must,
invent their own mistakes instead.
Maybe I’ll be objective enough
about those to have something useful to
say.
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Michael Nabert is a Canadian writer who loves to talk and sing, and writes mainly about
parenting, the art of wooing and paleontology. Widely traveled, with an opinion about everything, his friends often describe him as having
"a
deplorable excess of character." He is currently stay-at-home dad to Hugh
(3) and Keefe (9). Send feedback for Michael to: poprocks@austinmama.com
