Thursday, August 28, 2003
Fatherhood since September 11
By Russell King
I was holding 8-month-old Maya the morning of September 11. She was fussing over her bottle so I wasn't paying much attention to TV. When I looked up, the second airliner was hitting the second tower. Since then, we dads must rethink what we'll teach our children.
We've always known that life can be snatched away without warning or reason. Justice, fairness, and good and evil are human abstractions, so being good, innocent or right will never keep us safe in the concrete world. Already, we should have been teaching our children to treasure every fragile moment of life and to cultivate inner peace, because the "outer" world will always be a violent place.
One of the new lessons, for this dad, is about patriotism. Patriotism is far greater than the traditional definition of flags, uniforms and fighting wars. We covered our porches, cars and windows with flags, to send a message not to our enemies (who would never see or understand), but to each other: "We're in this together; you can count on me." Patriotism, as I'll explain it, is identifying with our fellow citizens and caring deeply about the welfare of each individual American.
A lesson that has new urgency is that peace is not a quaint relic of a drug-induced 1960s philosophy, as the hawkish pundits snidely assert. Two thousand years ago, the Prince of Peace taught us that the peacemakers are blessed and that we should love one another.
But what does love do when people are so mentally and morally defective that they'll drive planes loaded with innocent people into towers of innocent people? I don't believe they can be reached by any show of love.
I think of the children who died in those planes, and of the suffering of the thousands of children whose mommies or daddies will never come home from work, and I know that out of love for millions who are at risk for the same fate ugly steps are required. If a mad dog attacks your child, you kill the dog.
Only our clergy responded as leaders--bringing us together, offering strength and soothing fears. Our elected officials paraded before the cameras and spouted off like dull-witted WWF performers. There's a lesson in that, too, but I haven't figured it out yet.
Finally, there's a lesson about bigotry: After all we've gone through, we haven't learned much. I was shamed by the stories of hatred directed at anyone some yahoos thought might share the race, religion or culture of Osama Bin Laden. Why didn't we, after Oklahoma City, immediately despise all conservative, white American males? Apparently, guilt by association applies only to people with darker skin.
When I looked up to see the tragedy that morning, I was struck cold by the depravity, the horror and the anguish of it all. No body counts were necessary. That this was a picture of Hell on Earth was immediately obvious.
The older kids were at school and Rhonda was at a PTO meeting, so I was alone with our two babies. What does a dad do in such a time? What's the right thing? I have no idea. All I could think to do, all I was able to do, was to scoop Jaden up from the floor, put him across from Maya on my lap, and hold on to them both.
Maya pressed her head against my chest, and Jaden looked up at me with a smile. Maybe, just maybe, being encircled by their daddy's arms and enveloped by his love, they would be safe from the horror and the hatred. That was, anyway, what I asked for in my prayer.
By Russell King
I was holding 8-month-old Maya the morning of September 11. She was fussing over her bottle so I wasn't paying much attention to TV. When I looked up, the second airliner was hitting the second tower. Since then, we dads must rethink what we'll teach our children.
We've always known that life can be snatched away without warning or reason. Justice, fairness, and good and evil are human abstractions, so being good, innocent or right will never keep us safe in the concrete world. Already, we should have been teaching our children to treasure every fragile moment of life and to cultivate inner peace, because the "outer" world will always be a violent place.
One of the new lessons, for this dad, is about patriotism. Patriotism is far greater than the traditional definition of flags, uniforms and fighting wars. We covered our porches, cars and windows with flags, to send a message not to our enemies (who would never see or understand), but to each other: "We're in this together; you can count on me." Patriotism, as I'll explain it, is identifying with our fellow citizens and caring deeply about the welfare of each individual American.
A lesson that has new urgency is that peace is not a quaint relic of a drug-induced 1960s philosophy, as the hawkish pundits snidely assert. Two thousand years ago, the Prince of Peace taught us that the peacemakers are blessed and that we should love one another.
But what does love do when people are so mentally and morally defective that they'll drive planes loaded with innocent people into towers of innocent people? I don't believe they can be reached by any show of love.
I think of the children who died in those planes, and of the suffering of the thousands of children whose mommies or daddies will never come home from work, and I know that out of love for millions who are at risk for the same fate ugly steps are required. If a mad dog attacks your child, you kill the dog.
Only our clergy responded as leaders--bringing us together, offering strength and soothing fears. Our elected officials paraded before the cameras and spouted off like dull-witted WWF performers. There's a lesson in that, too, but I haven't figured it out yet.
Finally, there's a lesson about bigotry: After all we've gone through, we haven't learned much. I was shamed by the stories of hatred directed at anyone some yahoos thought might share the race, religion or culture of Osama Bin Laden. Why didn't we, after Oklahoma City, immediately despise all conservative, white American males? Apparently, guilt by association applies only to people with darker skin.
When I looked up to see the tragedy that morning, I was struck cold by the depravity, the horror and the anguish of it all. No body counts were necessary. That this was a picture of Hell on Earth was immediately obvious.
The older kids were at school and Rhonda was at a PTO meeting, so I was alone with our two babies. What does a dad do in such a time? What's the right thing? I have no idea. All I could think to do, all I was able to do, was to scoop Jaden up from the floor, put him across from Maya on my lap, and hold on to them both.
Maya pressed her head against my chest, and Jaden looked up at me with a smile. Maybe, just maybe, being encircled by their daddy's arms and enveloped by his love, they would be safe from the horror and the hatred. That was, anyway, what I asked for in my prayer.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
Hey, Dad, wake up!
By Russell King
With only a curtain between us and the next couple in the triage unit, privacy was not an option. Rhonda was still hours away from labor, but the young mom in the next bed was making noises of serious discomfort. The young dad was sitting, reading a magazine, so our attention was to the impending drama.
She tried to tell him about what was happening to her, he responded with an obligatory "uh-huh." She tried to tell him about her concerns, he tried to tell her about a golf vacation spot.
For the longest time, though she was being ignored, she kept a warm and gentle lilt to her tone. But, eventually, even love succumbs to apathy. She wanted him to call her mother, whose number was on a paper in the car. He was to put down the magazine, go to the car and make the call.
How will she get here?
She'll drive.
What's her number?
It's in the car "sweetie" (the endearment suddenly sounding more like something you'd scrape off the bottom of your shoe).
What's her name?
Rhonda was more amused than disgusted, but I was angrier by the minute.
He was the sort who gives men a bad name, a macho stereotype with a pulse. I felt insulted and wondered how I might revoke his membership in my gender.
His duty to be fully present, for her, was sacred. If he fails his wife now, will he fail his child later? I was unwilling to bet that fatherhood would make him grow up. I've tripped over rocks with greater awareness.
As one impending father to another, I wanted to tell him: Pay attention! You're about to take on the most important, most demanding and most rewarding role of your life. You are being granted a wealth beyond what you can imagine, beyond what either of us could deserve. You are about to witness the greatest miracle you can know. You are at the cusp of the most magical, most profound moment of your life.
If you're smart, or lucky, this is when you focus so intently on what is happening that nothing else even exists beyond the intimate circle of you, your woman and your child. The three of you are enveloped in an enchanted sphere of life-giving love and nothing you do will ever again feel-or matter--like this. What you're about to see, hear and smell will be your life's most vivid, most powerful memories.
Your chest will ache and your throat will burn with your wild emotions. Relish them: fear for her, wish you could hurt in her stead, pray for the baby's health, marvel at her courage, be awestruck by her strength. Envy her ability to create life. And when that life appears, tremble in disbelief. Where there was none, there is one: a new person, made by the two of you.
For hours, you will see only your child and your wife. Later, as she sleeps to recover, you will carry your child so its face is ever before your eyes. You will not tire. You will not hide the gush of tears and laughter that overwhelm you every few minutes. After a while, a realization will seep into you. The world is a different place, a much better place, because this child is in it. You will look up to share this new truth with your wife and find her smiling at you. She will know it, too.
Truths flow, in rapid succession. You will never be as close to anyone as you are to this woman. You will spend the rest of your days trying to live up to the honor of being father to this child. Whatever pain you'll know, this one moment makes it all worthwhile. Calm washes over you, strength fills you.
Only the worst kind of fool wastes a chance like this. Pay attention.
By Russell King
With only a curtain between us and the next couple in the triage unit, privacy was not an option. Rhonda was still hours away from labor, but the young mom in the next bed was making noises of serious discomfort. The young dad was sitting, reading a magazine, so our attention was to the impending drama.
She tried to tell him about what was happening to her, he responded with an obligatory "uh-huh." She tried to tell him about her concerns, he tried to tell her about a golf vacation spot.
For the longest time, though she was being ignored, she kept a warm and gentle lilt to her tone. But, eventually, even love succumbs to apathy. She wanted him to call her mother, whose number was on a paper in the car. He was to put down the magazine, go to the car and make the call.
How will she get here?
She'll drive.
What's her number?
It's in the car "sweetie" (the endearment suddenly sounding more like something you'd scrape off the bottom of your shoe).
What's her name?
Rhonda was more amused than disgusted, but I was angrier by the minute.
He was the sort who gives men a bad name, a macho stereotype with a pulse. I felt insulted and wondered how I might revoke his membership in my gender.
His duty to be fully present, for her, was sacred. If he fails his wife now, will he fail his child later? I was unwilling to bet that fatherhood would make him grow up. I've tripped over rocks with greater awareness.
As one impending father to another, I wanted to tell him: Pay attention! You're about to take on the most important, most demanding and most rewarding role of your life. You are being granted a wealth beyond what you can imagine, beyond what either of us could deserve. You are about to witness the greatest miracle you can know. You are at the cusp of the most magical, most profound moment of your life.
If you're smart, or lucky, this is when you focus so intently on what is happening that nothing else even exists beyond the intimate circle of you, your woman and your child. The three of you are enveloped in an enchanted sphere of life-giving love and nothing you do will ever again feel-or matter--like this. What you're about to see, hear and smell will be your life's most vivid, most powerful memories.
Your chest will ache and your throat will burn with your wild emotions. Relish them: fear for her, wish you could hurt in her stead, pray for the baby's health, marvel at her courage, be awestruck by her strength. Envy her ability to create life. And when that life appears, tremble in disbelief. Where there was none, there is one: a new person, made by the two of you.
For hours, you will see only your child and your wife. Later, as she sleeps to recover, you will carry your child so its face is ever before your eyes. You will not tire. You will not hide the gush of tears and laughter that overwhelm you every few minutes. After a while, a realization will seep into you. The world is a different place, a much better place, because this child is in it. You will look up to share this new truth with your wife and find her smiling at you. She will know it, too.
Truths flow, in rapid succession. You will never be as close to anyone as you are to this woman. You will spend the rest of your days trying to live up to the honor of being father to this child. Whatever pain you'll know, this one moment makes it all worthwhile. Calm washes over you, strength fills you.
Only the worst kind of fool wastes a chance like this. Pay attention.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
"Normal" is a setting on a washing machine
By Russell King
The following bizarre tales are as true as they are freakish.
This weekend, my wife, Rhonda, and my ex-wife, Kim, are traveling together to a distant city to attend a concert with my sister. They’ll share a hotel room, and then the two wives will drive home together. The two women who’ve been married to me will spend nearly 24 continuous hours together.
Two weeks ago, my wife’s ex-husband visited from half a world away and spent a week sleeping in our house, eating at our table and driving our car. He even mowed our lawn. Rylee, 7, and Logan, 9—his kids and my step-children—loved spending time with “Daddy Jon.” So did Rhonda and I.
When big decisions are made about Hannah, 11, and Danny, 15--the children Kim and I adopted together--there are four parents involved: two adopted parents and two step-parents.
Danny has the luxury of being supported by the love of his extended birth family as well. A year ago, I used the Internet and a shred of knowledge I had about his birth family to find them. Then I drove him to meet them. The meeting, the family and the family’s acceptance of both Danny and me were wonderful. I send letters, cards and pictures to keep them up-to-date. It’s worth noting that Danny’s the color of a Hershey bar, and I’m more of a Nilla Wafer.
The last two Thanksgivings, our house has been filled with almost 20 of my wife’s former in-laws. Her ex-mother-in-law is always the first to remember me at Father’s Day and my birthday, always greets me with kisses and never bats at eye when I call her “Mom.” The hugs, the warmth and the feeling of family I get from “Daddy Jon’s” siblings puts them at the top of my list of enjoyable people.
Our friends and neighbors think we’re nuts.
We’re often asked, “Why do you do that?”
We do it because we have no right not to. Our four blended-family children have a moral right to a relationship with their full range of parents and family. So long as none of them are harmful to the kids (thank God we don’t have that problem), we can find no legitimate reason for creating any barrier between the kids and those who love them.
It’s easy for divorced couples to find plenty of illegitimate reasons. You know each other more intimately than anyone else does. You know both strengths and weaknesses, and the emotions of divorce often cause us to focus on the weaknesses. In fact, most divorced people go through a phase of convincing themselves and others that their former spouse is, and always was, a monster. From this mind game come the illegitimate reasons.
Some 40% of divorced moms admitted in a study that they had interfered with their ex-hubby’s access to the kids because they wanted to punish him. I haven’t seen data on dads doing the same, but I’d bet we’re no less susceptible to feeling hurt and justified in seeking revenge. The point is, when we (moms and dads) use our kids as weapons to act on our delusions—they’re bad, we’re good—we become more destructive monsters than our ex’s ever thought we were.
The short of it is that the kids have a moral right to a relationship with all of their parents, and to feel good about them, we have no right at all to interfere. I don’t care how angry or hurt you are, or what a lowlife you think your ex might be: That “we” includes you.
Just do it: Check your emotions, shut your mouth and put your kids’ real needs ahead of your selfish wishes. At best, you’ll find you have friends and support in that extended family; at worst, you’ll set a good example and be a good parent. Besides, it’ll drive the neighbors insane.
By Russell King
The following bizarre tales are as true as they are freakish.
This weekend, my wife, Rhonda, and my ex-wife, Kim, are traveling together to a distant city to attend a concert with my sister. They’ll share a hotel room, and then the two wives will drive home together. The two women who’ve been married to me will spend nearly 24 continuous hours together.
Two weeks ago, my wife’s ex-husband visited from half a world away and spent a week sleeping in our house, eating at our table and driving our car. He even mowed our lawn. Rylee, 7, and Logan, 9—his kids and my step-children—loved spending time with “Daddy Jon.” So did Rhonda and I.
When big decisions are made about Hannah, 11, and Danny, 15--the children Kim and I adopted together--there are four parents involved: two adopted parents and two step-parents.
Danny has the luxury of being supported by the love of his extended birth family as well. A year ago, I used the Internet and a shred of knowledge I had about his birth family to find them. Then I drove him to meet them. The meeting, the family and the family’s acceptance of both Danny and me were wonderful. I send letters, cards and pictures to keep them up-to-date. It’s worth noting that Danny’s the color of a Hershey bar, and I’m more of a Nilla Wafer.
The last two Thanksgivings, our house has been filled with almost 20 of my wife’s former in-laws. Her ex-mother-in-law is always the first to remember me at Father’s Day and my birthday, always greets me with kisses and never bats at eye when I call her “Mom.” The hugs, the warmth and the feeling of family I get from “Daddy Jon’s” siblings puts them at the top of my list of enjoyable people.
Our friends and neighbors think we’re nuts.
We’re often asked, “Why do you do that?”
We do it because we have no right not to. Our four blended-family children have a moral right to a relationship with their full range of parents and family. So long as none of them are harmful to the kids (thank God we don’t have that problem), we can find no legitimate reason for creating any barrier between the kids and those who love them.
It’s easy for divorced couples to find plenty of illegitimate reasons. You know each other more intimately than anyone else does. You know both strengths and weaknesses, and the emotions of divorce often cause us to focus on the weaknesses. In fact, most divorced people go through a phase of convincing themselves and others that their former spouse is, and always was, a monster. From this mind game come the illegitimate reasons.
Some 40% of divorced moms admitted in a study that they had interfered with their ex-hubby’s access to the kids because they wanted to punish him. I haven’t seen data on dads doing the same, but I’d bet we’re no less susceptible to feeling hurt and justified in seeking revenge. The point is, when we (moms and dads) use our kids as weapons to act on our delusions—they’re bad, we’re good—we become more destructive monsters than our ex’s ever thought we were.
The short of it is that the kids have a moral right to a relationship with all of their parents, and to feel good about them, we have no right at all to interfere. I don’t care how angry or hurt you are, or what a lowlife you think your ex might be: That “we” includes you.
Just do it: Check your emotions, shut your mouth and put your kids’ real needs ahead of your selfish wishes. At best, you’ll find you have friends and support in that extended family; at worst, you’ll set a good example and be a good parent. Besides, it’ll drive the neighbors insane.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Just one more
By Russell King
According to legend, Nelson Rockefeller, when asked "How much money is enough?" answered "Just a little bit more." It doesn't matter if the story is true, because it works as a useful reminder for us grownups, and a useful lesson for the kids, about the folly of putting your hopes for happiness in the pursuit of wealth. On the other hand, as a dad, I can empathize with the bazillionaire.
I have six children who are providing me with a depth and breadth of parental experience that few others can know. They range in age from 15 to 2, so I'm getting to know just about every developmental stage all at once. Three girls and three boys, two are black and four are white, so the diversity is rich.
Adding more spice to the stew is the way in which they've come into my life. Two are adopted, two are stepchildren and two we've made from scratch. Even the two from scratch came with adventure. They were made possible by the surgical reversal of a vasectomy that was almost 15 years old. I was just weeks shy of 40, and my baby-making parts had long since closed up shop.
The doctor said that there was always that one unexplainable, blue-moon chance that it could happen, but that I should consider his fee to be "recreational spending," not an investment with an expected payoff. It would be 6 months, he said, before we'd know if anything would be possible.
Thirteen months later, Jaden was born. Twelve months after that, to the day, Maya was born. With that kind of luck, maybe I should be buying lottery tickets.
Come to think of it, winning the lottery would be anti-climactic. When I stop to consider this family, I can only pity the likes of Gates, Trump and Rockefeller. They are paupers in comparison.
One night, as I was tucking then-8-year-old Hannah into bed, she asked, "Dad, would you and Mom be rich if you didn't have all of us kids?" The question came up because we had just had a discussion of why we could not make some outrageous purchase (a Corvette Sting Ray, horse farm or an Olympic-size in-ground swimming pool, I forget what it was that night). The discussion touched on the living expenses of eight people, which included tons of kid stuff such as diapers, new school clothes and gymnastics lessons.
Hannah, bless her heart, got to figuring that if Mom and Dad weren't spending all that money on kid stuff, they'd have a lot more money for state-of-the-art, mega-wide-screen, surround-sound, home theater systems and other really cool junk. Heck, Dad could watch the Packers and have an almost life-size Brett Favre zinging passes through the den.
I don't think she was feeling guilty, I think she was just doing the math of life. You give up some things to have others. You do the pluses and minuses, and the answers are your priorities. The math of life tells you what's really important to you.
So when she asked "Dad, would you and Mom be rich if you didn't have all of us kids?" the equation worked quickly and easily in my mind. I choked back a tear of pride and smiled at her, then leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Oh no, honey. If we didn't have you kids, we'd be as poor as dirt."
Still, I know how Mr. Rockefeller feels. My second vasectomy was recently confirmed a success. Financially and logistically speaking, that's a good thing. But when I saw a pregnant woman the other day, a sadness and sense of loss washed over me.
It's the curse of fatherhood. I know it's best that our family grows no larger, but no matter how many children you have, no matter how insanely rich in love you are, "enough" children will always be just one more.
By Russell King
According to legend, Nelson Rockefeller, when asked "How much money is enough?" answered "Just a little bit more." It doesn't matter if the story is true, because it works as a useful reminder for us grownups, and a useful lesson for the kids, about the folly of putting your hopes for happiness in the pursuit of wealth. On the other hand, as a dad, I can empathize with the bazillionaire.
I have six children who are providing me with a depth and breadth of parental experience that few others can know. They range in age from 15 to 2, so I'm getting to know just about every developmental stage all at once. Three girls and three boys, two are black and four are white, so the diversity is rich.
Adding more spice to the stew is the way in which they've come into my life. Two are adopted, two are stepchildren and two we've made from scratch. Even the two from scratch came with adventure. They were made possible by the surgical reversal of a vasectomy that was almost 15 years old. I was just weeks shy of 40, and my baby-making parts had long since closed up shop.
The doctor said that there was always that one unexplainable, blue-moon chance that it could happen, but that I should consider his fee to be "recreational spending," not an investment with an expected payoff. It would be 6 months, he said, before we'd know if anything would be possible.
Thirteen months later, Jaden was born. Twelve months after that, to the day, Maya was born. With that kind of luck, maybe I should be buying lottery tickets.
Come to think of it, winning the lottery would be anti-climactic. When I stop to consider this family, I can only pity the likes of Gates, Trump and Rockefeller. They are paupers in comparison.
One night, as I was tucking then-8-year-old Hannah into bed, she asked, "Dad, would you and Mom be rich if you didn't have all of us kids?" The question came up because we had just had a discussion of why we could not make some outrageous purchase (a Corvette Sting Ray, horse farm or an Olympic-size in-ground swimming pool, I forget what it was that night). The discussion touched on the living expenses of eight people, which included tons of kid stuff such as diapers, new school clothes and gymnastics lessons.
Hannah, bless her heart, got to figuring that if Mom and Dad weren't spending all that money on kid stuff, they'd have a lot more money for state-of-the-art, mega-wide-screen, surround-sound, home theater systems and other really cool junk. Heck, Dad could watch the Packers and have an almost life-size Brett Favre zinging passes through the den.
I don't think she was feeling guilty, I think she was just doing the math of life. You give up some things to have others. You do the pluses and minuses, and the answers are your priorities. The math of life tells you what's really important to you.
So when she asked "Dad, would you and Mom be rich if you didn't have all of us kids?" the equation worked quickly and easily in my mind. I choked back a tear of pride and smiled at her, then leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Oh no, honey. If we didn't have you kids, we'd be as poor as dirt."
Still, I know how Mr. Rockefeller feels. My second vasectomy was recently confirmed a success. Financially and logistically speaking, that's a good thing. But when I saw a pregnant woman the other day, a sadness and sense of loss washed over me.
It's the curse of fatherhood. I know it's best that our family grows no larger, but no matter how many children you have, no matter how insanely rich in love you are, "enough" children will always be just one more.
Saturday, August 02, 2003
The Importance of mowing in earnest
By Russell King
You wouldn't think that mowing the lawn was that big a deal. It's a chore. Worse, it's a chore usually accompanied by heat and humidity, biting and stinging insects and the threat of sunburn--hardly the stuff of a meaningful moment.
But there it was. I mowed the long edge of the yard, then turned to make the return trip. That's when I saw 17-month-old Jaden following me, pushing his bright red and yellow $3 toy lawn mower up the cut path. He looked up at me and smiled.
You have to realize something about toddler smiles. They're not like yours or mine, nor even like those of older children.
Toddlers know no shame, no embarrassment, no inhibition. They know in their hearts that they are the center of the universe and that they are supremely lovable. When toddlers smile, their faces say, "Life feels so wonderful right now, I feel so proud of and happy with myself right now that I'm about to vibrate right out of my own skin."
Older children and grown ups have been made to feel immature, foolish or even bad for showing such powerful emotions, so we hide them or kill them. If losing the ability to feel that way about ourselves is the price of admission to the adult realm, I think we've gotten a pretty raw deal.
As we made our way around the yard, Jaden kept a safe distance from my mower, which I'd convinced him was "hot" (his one and only concept of danger), and I kept a close eye on him. He studied and imitated my every move: the one-handed shove-and-pull for mowing under the swings, the circle around the base of the trees, and even the backhanded wipe of sweat from the eyes.
All the while, I had this growing sense that this was one of those times when I'd be smart to pay attention. Jaden was telling me something.
When I realized that I was taking more care than usual in this bit of suburban cosmetics, Jaden's message finally reached me: As a father, everything about me will, in some way, change who my children will be and how they will live. Whether I set a good example or bad, whether they follow or flee, I will be affecting them. It can't be helped. Having me as their dad will make each of my six kids someone other than who they would have been if I had not been their dad.
That's big. That's "sit down and think about this with a cup of coffee" big. That's "take a look in the mirror and ask 'Who the heck are you?'" big.
I was lucky. My role model is the greatest man I've ever known. Not because he knew all the answers, did everything right and always set the perfect example, but because he knew he fell short and had the wisdom to let himself grow as a person, a man and a father.
My eldest brother once asked Dad why he had reared him with the proverbial iron fist but let me "get away with murder." I'm sure Dad wanted to dispute the descriptions of his parenting, but he answered simply and profoundly: "I learned along the way."
The image of manhood that my father's life has built for me is constructed of such strength, beauty and grace that I will run short of days before I run short of inspiration or awe. But who am I to serve as anyone's role model?
It's a question that haunts me. It's a question that sparks in me a desire, a commitment, to try--more than I did yesterday--to live according to my highest values.
If you're a dad, I hope the question at least makes you stop to think. Who is watching you "mow" today, and what sort of path are you cutting for them to follow?
By Russell King
You wouldn't think that mowing the lawn was that big a deal. It's a chore. Worse, it's a chore usually accompanied by heat and humidity, biting and stinging insects and the threat of sunburn--hardly the stuff of a meaningful moment.
But there it was. I mowed the long edge of the yard, then turned to make the return trip. That's when I saw 17-month-old Jaden following me, pushing his bright red and yellow $3 toy lawn mower up the cut path. He looked up at me and smiled.
You have to realize something about toddler smiles. They're not like yours or mine, nor even like those of older children.
Toddlers know no shame, no embarrassment, no inhibition. They know in their hearts that they are the center of the universe and that they are supremely lovable. When toddlers smile, their faces say, "Life feels so wonderful right now, I feel so proud of and happy with myself right now that I'm about to vibrate right out of my own skin."
Older children and grown ups have been made to feel immature, foolish or even bad for showing such powerful emotions, so we hide them or kill them. If losing the ability to feel that way about ourselves is the price of admission to the adult realm, I think we've gotten a pretty raw deal.
As we made our way around the yard, Jaden kept a safe distance from my mower, which I'd convinced him was "hot" (his one and only concept of danger), and I kept a close eye on him. He studied and imitated my every move: the one-handed shove-and-pull for mowing under the swings, the circle around the base of the trees, and even the backhanded wipe of sweat from the eyes.
All the while, I had this growing sense that this was one of those times when I'd be smart to pay attention. Jaden was telling me something.
When I realized that I was taking more care than usual in this bit of suburban cosmetics, Jaden's message finally reached me: As a father, everything about me will, in some way, change who my children will be and how they will live. Whether I set a good example or bad, whether they follow or flee, I will be affecting them. It can't be helped. Having me as their dad will make each of my six kids someone other than who they would have been if I had not been their dad.
That's big. That's "sit down and think about this with a cup of coffee" big. That's "take a look in the mirror and ask 'Who the heck are you?'" big.
I was lucky. My role model is the greatest man I've ever known. Not because he knew all the answers, did everything right and always set the perfect example, but because he knew he fell short and had the wisdom to let himself grow as a person, a man and a father.
My eldest brother once asked Dad why he had reared him with the proverbial iron fist but let me "get away with murder." I'm sure Dad wanted to dispute the descriptions of his parenting, but he answered simply and profoundly: "I learned along the way."
The image of manhood that my father's life has built for me is constructed of such strength, beauty and grace that I will run short of days before I run short of inspiration or awe. But who am I to serve as anyone's role model?
It's a question that haunts me. It's a question that sparks in me a desire, a commitment, to try--more than I did yesterday--to live according to my highest values.
If you're a dad, I hope the question at least makes you stop to think. Who is watching you "mow" today, and what sort of path are you cutting for them to follow?
